


Tomorrow Never Knows

by Mozart (BlondeMelancholic)



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Imported, Original Character Death(s), POV Second Person, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Suicide, Swearing, all hail the trash queen, considering they just came out with the plot for the sequel, lots and lots of swearing, which means no reviews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 71,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondeMelancholic/pseuds/Mozart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would take a spy of legendary skill, talent, and prowess to take down a force that threatened to undermine the very structure of Kingsman. You weren't actually that kind of spy, but you were pretending to be, which to your credit is more than others can say.</p>
<p>[Response to "Know Your Manners" challenge on Lunaescence]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Chav Who Loved Me

**Author's Note:**

> another import from lunaescence
> 
> one day i'll actually write something new and post it here and feel great instead of importing 64k worth of work with nothing to show for it here. but that's okay. we're all okay

_**Manner #6** – The world is not interested in what you dislike. Keep negative opinions to yourself, or between you and your friends, and out of earshot of adults._

Of course, he had heard of Agent Lincoln before. Everyone had. She was apparently the coldest and deadliest of the American cousins, the most competent, but also the most enigmatic; he wasn’t even sure of what she looked like. He was given a rough description but apparently she had never let herself be photographed, not even by her own organization, which told him that she was going to be high maintenance and therefore a real pain in the ass to deal with.

Eggsy Unwin stood at the airport, waiting for you – waiting for Lincoln. Having only existed since the eighties, the American Kingsman branch was still in its infancy but competent enough to meet the quality standards of its British counterpart. A falling-out in the early 2000s, however, had estranged the cousins and only with the rise of a new American head was there an attempt to repair the relationship. He wasn’t sure why he had to be the one to test whether or not the two groups could play well together but having a partner for a mission beat a sharp stick in the eye.

You were supposed to meet him at 2:00, and it was 1:57. Though you were not late he was tuning into any conversation that boasted an American accent. The fact that it was tourist season made it a painstaking process, but he figured that he could rule out certain parties, unless you were so competent that you could seamlessly blend in with the tourist crowd. He perked up at the sound of someone who could be you but it was just another rough American accent complaining that _Are they serious? I have to pay to go to the fucking bathroom around here? You’d think that the fact that they’re 90% boiled leaf water over here would make them a little more generous but this is in-fuckin’-sane…_

Eggsy had been somewhat briefed on how to deal with Agent Lincoln. He was told to be utterly serious with her, to never joke, for a handshake to be the sole contact he would have with her, to never try to learn her real name unless offered, and to always call her _ma’am_ despite being partners. It sounded like tedious bullshit but he didn’t want to be the one to fuck up the big reunion of Kingsman branches, so he could at least try to be civil as long as you were pulling your weight. 

He looked down at his watch. 1:59. He wondered if you were going to be late, but sure enough, as soon as the clock hit 2:00 a young woman somehow materialized beside him right after he turned his head away. (And how did you _do_ that? Harry had been so smug about his own ability) You were staring straight at him, beaming, like you felt so fucking proud of yourself for being exactly on time, and before he could say a word to you, you offered your hand.

“You look like a tailor to me,” you said, grasping his hand firmly when he reciprocated and pumping it up and down, the handshake of politicians and the eager youth. “Lincoln.”

You seemed more agreeable than he expected and that was the only thing that startled him. Was he being tested? Was it a test? Figuring that he was, he looked you in the eye, as serious as he could make himself, and said, “I assume you know who I am. I’ll make this brief. The mission starts in three days. We’ll get through it as quickly and quietly as possible and when it’s over, it’s over. You should know that I’m taking this very…” He searched for a word that would seem impressive to you. “…seriously.”

You were quiet at that, maybe a little surprised. Had you not expected that level of professionalism from him? He had surprised himself. It wasn’t so bad; he could pull this off.

…Except he hadn’t been prepared for you to recoil in shock and horror, as if he had found a way to insult your entire bloodline in thirty seconds. 

“Well, Jesus,” you exclaimed, your voice – which you had, until then, kept light and tidy – roughening out to an accent that was terrifyingly familiar to him. “Had I known that you all were such going to be such a pain in the ass I would have brought some medication. I can’t believe it! I thought everything over here was built on manners? And how they maketh man?!”

…in truth, he would have truly impressed Agent Lincoln with his words. Except you weren’t her. You were filling in. And where was the girl you were filling in for? Well… probably hunched over a toilet. You had poisoned her. Accidentally, of course. And you stood there with the realization that you had probably just alienated the one person you needed to befriend in order for the partnership mission to succeed.

“…This is gonna suck.”


	2. Octofussy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you live out the American dream and poison a coworker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also keep in mind i wrote this one month after the movie came out so all this fancy schmancy sequel stuff doesn't apply  
> which is why i guess i tagged it AU but why would you read these tags. i cannot tag. show old woman mozi how to tag

_**Manner #24** \-- Keep a napkin on your lap; use it to wipe your mouth when necessary._

Mere hours earlier, you had been on your plane to London, cheerfully preparing to poison yourself.

It was nothing morbid; you knew poison better than anyone else at your branch and were practically a specialist. At first you had merely ingested harmless poisons to get yourself sick so that you had an excuse to get out of the batshit training exercises that you were being made to go through. Once your superiors caught on you were quickly banned from being within five feet of them, which was a shame, as you were developing a tolerance for it and had genuinely been interested in studying to see what you could build up an immunity for.

So how had you procured the vial that sat in your palm as you sneaked peeks around the corner, trying to make sure that no one was looking? Well! If only the excellent spy work you had demonstrated in stealing it would translate over to your real, actual spy job. You stared at the soup in front of you, trying to determine how much to dump in. The whole thing would probably have you ill for weeks, and the last thing you needed was to spend the entirety of your time on the mission being acquainted with the toilet bowl. But if you put in too little, they would catch on to your familiar behavior and force you to go out even with an upset tummy… Oh, well! You dumped the contents of the entire vial into your soup, stirring generously, watching it evaporate and disappear. Kingsman poison was nearly impossible to detect through sight or taste, and it surprised you that it wasn’t utilized more often. Leave it to macho spyism to reject poison as a woman’s weapon when literally everyone in the world needed to eat at some point or the other.

“Harrison!” the actual real-life Lincoln called from the cabin. “You're running out of time! We'll be descending soon. Are you done yet? It better not cool while you’re standing there!”

“I’m just, uh, temping it,” you lied. Lincoln demanded that her soup be no hotter than two hundred degrees but no colder than one hundred and ninety-two. You had thought that Washington had been joking when he told you to bring a thermometer with you for the mission. “Perfect. Almost two hundred.”

“Well, don’t let it sit there! Bring it out!”

“Jesus Christ, I’m _coming._ ” You took both bowls of soup, making sure to keep a tight hold on the one you knew to be yours. It wouldn’t be hard; you had taken more than her in order to make up for the poison you dumped in. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I can see that you were wasting away without me.”

Marguerite Kinsey embodied what a pedestrian would think of a spy: neat, elegant, professional, with not a hair out of place. Efficient to the point of resembling a German, calculating, competent, and hated the mere idea of imperfection. In short you loathed working with her, though you would hate anyone who made you get up at five in the morning so that you could climb a mountain before the sun rose. But her professionalism was the reason why you were stuck with her; you were the worst candidate out of all the trainees, but unlike the British model, the American Kingsman was always looking for new members and you had inherited a position, albeit against your will. Maybe Washington thought that Kinsey’s professionalism would rub off on you but so far all you wanted to do was run away to the mountains and live among the sheep.

She was tapping her fingers impatiently against the armrest, fixing you with her usual cold, clear gaze. “This cabin is cold, Harrison. That soup had better not have cooled in the time it took you to waddle all the way over here.”

“Fear not. I once came first in a waddling marathon, ma’am,” you replied dryly, wondering how many demerits you would get if you accidentally dumped her dinner all over her.

“Probably the only thing you ever came first in, Harrison.” Jesus; she must be anxious about the mission if she was cutting into you so early. Usually it took her at least one spent bullet before she started making jibes.

“You know, you can call me by my real name when we’re, like, alone.”

“Don’t be a novice. You should never drop your codename.”

Maybe that was true, but she took a personal enjoyment in reminding you of yours. _William Henry Harrison_ \-- that’s whose name you took after. Everyone had expected you to die after a month on the job, or maybe they hoped for it. Kinsey was a different case; she probably didn’t want you dead, but she wanted your brother alive again. You also wished that your brother was alive again, because it was his death that brought you into Kingsman in the first place and you wanted to beat his ass to death just once before lovingly resurrecting him for a second time.

“Of course. Codenames. Never drop them,” you assented, placing her soup in front of her. “Eat up, ma’am.”

She was about to pick up her spoon when she noticed the portion you had when you sat across from her and prepared to dig into your own bowl of freedom. Scandalized, she exclaimed, “Just what are you playing at?”

Your spoon was halfway to your mouth, halfway to getting you out of that damn mission, halfway to getting you out of being Kinsey’s slave for the duration of it. “Huh?”

“You… gave yourself more than I have.” She was breathing deeply, chest rising and falling. Okay; she was definitely more freaked out than you gave her credit for. “What are you trying to do? Are you planning on underfeeding me? Is this retribution? I need strength for this mission, Harrison. _You_ don’t, and I promise you that if you’re planning on some little passive-aggressive campaign of ruining my diet so that you can have your revenge I will personally make sure that you’re scrubbing every toilet in London with a single rag—”

“Calm the fuck _down,_ Kinsey,” you snapped, already forgetting about her command. “It was nothing personal. Jesus. I was the one who skipped lunch, remember? I just felt a little hungry.”

“Then that’s even worse! You were supposed to be watching your diet!”

“Oh, yes. Because an extra cup of soup is definitely going to ruin my godlike physique.”

People usually bent over backwards to accommodate Kinsey’s advice, however unsolicited, assuming that her pointers would lead to genuine improvements. But you had spent too much time cleaning her dirty laundry from the floors of hotel rooms and cleaning them exactly to her requirements to care. She knew that most of the time her words bounced off of you like tennis balls off of a brick wall and this time she gave up, her expression stern as she raised her spoon to her mouth.

“Keep your napkin on your lap,” she ordered, noticing that yours was still sitting on the table. “You should know how to observe good manners. Kingsman agents are supposed to be the epitome of grace and etiquette. You’re barely one of us and if you’re ever going to be respected you’ll need to follow manners properly. Especially in England.”

“Yeah, yeah. Napkins.” You had no idea that your future partner wouldn’t care at all about napkins or even the right kind of silverware so you figured her advice this time was genuinely useful and you paused from your eating to drop your napkin into your lap.

Kingsman agents are known for their lightning-quick movements. Kinsey, of course, was no exception. Before you had enough time to properly smooth the napkin out in your lap she had already taken your bowl away from you and had replaced yours with hers. Not a single drop of broth was spilled. You probably wouldn’t have even noticed had you not had a keen eye for your own food, but it was too late; by the time you looked up in shock, she had already taken three spoonfuls of your generously poisoned soup.

“Kinsey!” you cried, shooting your arm across the table to knock it away from her. But as usual, she was too fast for you and had already taken the bowl up in her hands, moving it out of the way of your wild swings. “Kinsey, give it back!”

“It’s the same soup,” she replied irritably, putting it away like nobody’s business. Well, that was news to you: she was a nervous eater. “Don’t get so panicky over everything. It’s unbecoming.”

“Kinsey, you fucking _idiot!_ ” You didn’t care about the fact that she was eating poison as much as you were concerned about her taking away your ticket out of the mission. But you couldn’t reveal that to her; if Washington knew you were still on your poisoning act he would have you dragging your feet around after Kinsey forever. “I… didn’t heat that up properly!”

“It tastes fine to me.” Oh, the irony! “Well, maybe a little…”

_Ah, fuck._ You watched helplessly as her expression changed from smug satisfaction to pause as her mind caught onto what her body was already processing. She put down the soup and daintily picked the napkin off of her lap, holding it to her mouth as she managed a somewhat polite cough.

“Are you okay?” you asked cautiously. The stuff you had been planning to administer to yourself was nonlethal, but was meant to make targets sick for hours; and that was just the proper dosage. You had a tolerance for it so you had applied it too liberally. With morbid wonder you imagined Kinsey vomiting her internal organs out in front of you as security in England wandered up to find you in a plane with a dead body as you tried to explain that you had really meant to poison _yourself._

Her coughing went more towards her stomach and she started to retch, her graceful persona melting away as she doubled over in her seat and started spitting into her napkin. _Are there etiquette rules for this?!_ You couldn’t be sure. A true Kingsman would be jumping up to assist their partner, but Kinsey wasn’t your partner, and you recalled with dawning horror that you had neglected to bring an antidote, assuming that you would neither want nor need one.

Kinsey pushed the dining table away from her and stumbled up, her hand to her mouth as she made for the bathroom. You stood up to try and go after her, just for appearance’s sake, but there was nothing to be done. You were waiting for your body to go into panic mode. This was it. Kinsey would be out of commission for weeks without help, but you couldn’t get help without admitting that you had poisoned her, unless you could somehow lie well enough to convince them that she just had a long-term case of food poisoning. And judging by the vomiting that was already taking place inside of the bathroom, it was going to be intense.

_This is fine,_ you told yourself as you could practically feel the flames rising around you. No. _Fuck_ no. You could _not_ do this mission, much less on your own. You didn’t even care what it was about. If the hypercompetent Lincoln was chosen for this mission, it was because she could do something that Harrison couldn’t.

But there was still time! Yes! There was still enough time to figure everything out. You had time to plan everything out, to see if the first wave of Kinsey’s sickness could subside long enough for her to do something, to see if perhaps she had at least some sort of tolerance to it. You could sort out a Plan A, Plan B, Plan C, and so forth. Contacting Washington to let him know that Lincoln was out of commission was obviously Plan N or O, mostly plan NO, but it was still a plan. Yes. No matter what, you would _not_ be the one meeting this Galahad, whoever the fuck that was. You just needed time to work it all out.

Until a voice came on over the PA, telling you to buckle up and prepare for descent. You cursed and rushed to clean up your dinner, and before you sat down you grabbed yourself a fistful of vomit bags. You wondered who was going to need them more.


	3. The Chav with the Golden Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you are the anti-Mike Ehrmantraut.

_**Manner #21** \-- When an adult asks you for a favor, do it without grumbling and with a smile._

Unfortunately, when Kinsey finally limped out of the bathroom, doubled over the whole way, she took all of your vomit bags. You might as well be meeting Kingsman naked, though as you landed the greatest concern on your mind was that the landing would be so rough that she would lose her protection and vomit all over your face. It wouldn’t be the most embarrassing thing that happened to you, but whatever.

Not like she wouldn’t have a good reason for doing so, of course. It was your fault she was in that position. So far she wasn’t pointing fingers (her fingers were all occupied keeping a bag to her face) and you hoped that it would stay that way. Even if it was just an accident, you grounding the best agent in your outfit would land you in solitary confinement for weeks. On the short, bumpy landing, you had resigned yourself to the sad conclusion that you really were going to have to go out and meet Galahad on your own. The last thing you needed was for Kinsey to wobble out there and lose her bowels right at the most critical moment between the two Kingsman branches.

When you landed you unbuckled yourself and got up. Trying on your most authoritative voice, you said, “You stay here, Lincoln. You’re unfit for duty. I’ll report in on my own.”

“ _No,_ ” she commanded, though it sounded less than persuasive considering how scratchy her voice was. “It must just be some food poisoning. It’s _my_ fault…”

You actually felt guilty. Maybe you shouldn’t let her beat herself up over it. “Aw, c’mon, Kinsey, I—”

“My _fault_ for expecting a giant fuck-up to adhere to my specifications right before a big mission!” After a moment she clapped her hand over her mouth and you weren’t sure if it was because she was shocked at herself or if she was going to get sick again. “Your fault again, Harrison. I just used up my one swear for this mission and it’s only the first day. You’ve made me look unprofessional already. Do you think they curse here in England, Harrison?!”

(If only she knew…!)

She tried to stand but her legs hardly let her; they bowed and she lurched forward. Instead of grabbing her like a good subordinate you remembered her no-touching rule. Panicking, you hastily moved aside, letting her more or less collapse against the seat opposite her. “I have to go!” she cried out, lurching down the aisle as if physically proposing to make her way through the airport looking like hell on two legs.

“Kinsey, you’re a fucking moron.” Though it was against her rules you took her by her collar and yanked her into a seat. “You’re not going anywhere. I can go in your place. What difference does it make if it’s me or you?”

“It makes _all_ the difference,” she fumed, crossing her arms. “I’m the best field agent in our outfit. Objectively. And I’m the olive branch. You wouldn’t send Useless McFuckup to help complete a mission as a good show of friendship, would you? You would want to send your best agent.”

As usual, she pissed you off but she was right. You were a no-name, almost worse than that considering the catastrophe that was your first mission in the field. “Well, fine. I’ll just say I’m you. They won’t know the difference anyway. All the old Lincolns kept dying; we never update the database.” Much like a homepage of a university, the American branch of Kingsman had laughably outdated databases that were updated once every few years. Washington claimed that it was old protocol designed to eliminate a threat of hacking but you figured that it was because no one wanted to get hired into Kingsman to do something as bland as updating profiles. (You would! What a nice, easy, relaxing job that would be…!)

“No!” she squawked, getting mad now. Ordinarily she could just beat you into submission but she was too weak for that now; subconsciously she must have realized that, for once in her life, you were the one with more power. “How can you live up to my reputation?! They’ll see it immediately!”

“We don’t even know what the _mission_ is yet. They probably just picked an easy partner assignment. Kinsey, come on. Do you want me to call Washington?” It was your last possible option but you tried to turn it into reverse psychology. “You want him to see you looking like this? He’ll kill you if he sees his ‘best agent’ trying to do a diplomacy mission looking her worst, right?”

Miraculously, it worked. “Oh, _God._ I didn’t think about it like that.” Her mouth wobbled; clearly she was torn between letting an idiot use her name and looking like an idiot by going out while looking so terrible. “ _Fine._ I’ll be in here. You’d better come back here as soon as possible and brief me, Harrison.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going…” …to the firing squad, most likely. “Just let me pack some heat.”

Long story short, you heard someone say that you needed to pay to use bathrooms in England and had loudly bitched up a storm over it. Afterwards you met your new partner, and after being dazzled by his surprising attractiveness you managed to fuck it all up by getting offended over his behavior, forgetting that he had probably heard of Lincoln’s uptight reputation and was tailoring himself to that. Ruining a partnership and a potentially competent lay in one fell swoop; a new level of fucking up even for you.

After forgetting which side the steering wheel was on in an English car, you got into the passenger side and he started to drive you to his headquarters. You sat on your hands, trying to figure out what to say to break the ice a bit.

Somewhere between _What’s up with you?_ and _Tell me about your name_ you got “What’s up with your name?” and considered sewing your own mouth shut right there.

He gave you the cut-eye; still unsure about you. “What about it?”

“You know…” You sweated, hurrying to defend yourself. “How do you get _Eggsy_ from _Gary?_ ”

“Oh. Well, fuck does it matter? How do you get _Dick_ from _Richard?_ ”

“By asking him nicely… Ohoho.” It was the shittiest response in the book so you blasted on forward, trying to make amends. Touching his arm as delicately and maturely as possible, you said, “Don’t get me wrong, Eggsy. I like your name. It’s cool.”

That also seemed like a shitty beginner thing to say but you must have finally done something right because he looked at you and smiled. Okay; obviously you weren’t as bad at making friends as you thought you were. And Eggsy was getting accustomed to what was apparently the real Lincoln: you were fine with being called your real name, you invited physical contact, and whenever you saw something new you struck up a conversation about it. (Just now: _You know, that’s a really nice suit. I brought one too but it was actually warm from where I come from. You familiar with the concept here in London? Warmth? Sun?_ And so forth…)

“So do you know what the mission is?” you inquired after you got more confident, the two of you alone at the tailor's as the floor slowly sank into a deep shaft. (To your credit, you resisted making jokes about shafts) “We were told fuck-all back in the colonies.” Hopefully the mission involved angry jungle sex with your partner because you would totally be prepared for that.

“Nah. I was told it was gonna be a surprise. Exciting stuff, right?”

“Deffo.” So angry jungle sex was still within the realm of possibility. You hoped that whatever it was, it would be as easy as possible. Maybe just some teambuilding exercise like sack races or charades or naked Twister. Of course it would be just like fucking Kingsman to not build interpersonal relations like a normal organization.

When you reached the bunker you were so excited at what you saw you practically pressed yourself against the glass like it was your first trip to the amusement park. Jet planes! Fighter jets! All that state-of-the-art manufacturing! Back at home you probably had something like this but you didn't have high enough clearance to view it. When you looked back at him your eyes were shining and you almost looked cute, but before he could tell you something like _I was the same way when I first saw it_ you said, “Think of all the shit I could blow up with this! Eggsy...!” 

You had been so nervous about making a good first impression, when really… That was all that you needed to say...!

He led you to some room where a serious bald gentleman – that was probably his whole character – was waiting for you in front of a sealed door. In front of him was a table with a shabby-looking bin in front of it. You did your best to seem the most sophisticated in front of your new partner’s boss, who you assumed to be much harder to please. Time for a good first impression, round two…

“Merlin,” you greeted, then paused. “Arthur?” You furrowed your brow. “Which one are you again?”

“Yes,” was all he said. You wondered if _he_ knew that you were a liar but if he knew or cared he didn't show it. “Now, Lincoln, behind this door is your mission. But before I let you through I’m going to have to ask you to remove all of your weaponry.”

“All my stuff?” you whined, already failing to do orders as asked. “But why?”

“Why? Our client for your mission is a sensitive soul.” You heard it in his voice, the strain of the underlying message: _a pain in the ass._ “Of course, I’m guessing it won’t be too big of a favor to ask you to keep yourself unarmed for twenty minutes?”

It was your turn to give the cut-eye, but you remembered another one of Kinsey’s rules on manners. _When a superior asks you to do something, do it quickly and with a smile._ You looked back at Eggsy and though he made a face at you like he hadn’t wanted to do it either he nodded for you to go ahead. 

With a sigh you took out the usual: two guns, a knife, three grenades, two poison pens, and a razor blade. Arranging it all neatly inside of your bin, you folded your arms and looked up at him with an agreeable expression. Merlin, however, gave you a deadpan look.

“ _All_ of it,” he said.

With a heavier sigh you started taking weapons out from random places on your person: another gun, three more knives, a baton, a stun guns, bear mace, _another_ can of bear mace, piano wire, and a Taser designed to look like a hairclip.

“There, you happy?” you snapped, looking at the both of them, feeling naked and about three pounds lighter than before. Eggsy was shocked that you’d been able to walk normally with all of that on you and wondered if Roxy went around every day with the same arsenal.

Merlin seemed ready to let you through when Eggsy came up behind you and stuck his hand down your pants. Not the front, mind you, or the back, but down the side to your thigh where he retrieved a set of brass knuckles that you had kept hidden in a thigh pocket.

“Holy hell, you had brass knuckles in your fucking _trousers?_ ”

“What, you don’t?” Not the best time to get defensive, but you were, not to mention embarrassed that someone you'd been trying to impressed had not only sensed that you were hiding something but had also reached inside of your pants to retrieve it. “No, man, go ahead. I insist. Stick your hands back down my pants, Eggsy. Who knows what other buried treasure I’ve got lurking around there.”

“Bruv, stick whatever you want down there. I just want to know how brass knuckles in your trousers were gonna _help_ you.”

“It was in a knife pocket, okay?! I was in a hurry! I got mixed up! Don't think it was easy. Do you know how hard it is to walk when you have a fucking _switchblade_ in your bra?”

As Merlin rearranged the rest of your weaponry he let you and Eggsy bicker on for a little while longer. When he looked up again, however, he had made some joke about where you were hiding a truncheon and you laughed and then he laughed and all seemed to be totally well. When the two of you recalled that your superior was there you both returned to an air of total professionalism, hands behind your back, chins up, ready for the next order. And when he looked between the two of you, one of the best field agents of the British branch of Kingsman and apparently the best of the American cousins, he guessed that… you were about what he expected.


	4. On Some Little Asshole's Secret Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you are not very good with children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wanted the title of the entire piece to be how this chapter was titled but it wouldn't really fly on Lunaescence, where it was originally posted, and any iteration would be too wordy. but i still hold it dear to me

_**Manner #14** – Don't call people mean names._

While walking into the room where your mission apparently sat, you knew that you were to be the face of the American cousins. That meant professionalism, an eloquent tongue, and a quick, effortless smile. It was easy to impress people and you knew exactly how you needed an act to do so. It was a shame, then, that your excellent preparation would go to shit so _easily._

You walked in first, still a bit disgruntled about having to remove all of your heat, but doing your best to keep up a cool and competent air. When you entered you were greeted by the sight of three young women sitting down quietly, and when they saw you they stood to see you. Wondering who the fuck they were but assuming that they had to be someone important, you prepared to make some opening statement when a small shape rocketed out of nowhere and tried to blow past you. Operating on instinct alone you reflexively shot out your arm, lowering it to catch the fleer in the neck, and for once you were perfect. Perfect in that he went down immediately, though against your expectations he let out a thin, reedy cry. Almost like… the cry of a child…

“Hendrick!” one of the girls cried out when he hit the ground and started writhing.

“The fuck was that?” you spat, thoroughly unamused as you looked down at the child you just clotheslined. He looked to be no older than six or seven and there seemed to be so little to him that you could probably stuff him into a tote if you tried hard enough. He was clutching at his neck and looking up at you with hatred in his dark eyes, struggling to catch his breath.

When he found it, the first thing he squealed was: “You’re on the list!”

“Hendrick, stop that,” another one of the girls said, hurrying towards him and scooping him up in her arms like a toddler. “I’m sorry. He was just excited…”

“What list?” you asked, looking with confusion at Eggsy, who was for this moment just as confused as you were.

Merlin had appeared and gave you a single look. Like Washington he had the ability to communicate a complex thought with a single disapproving look and this one was _Congratulations, Lincoln, for starting us off on the right foot by not only clotheslining a first grader but the one who happens to be our client._ “Lincoln, Galahad. Allow me to introduce you to the royal family.”

“Royal family?” Weren’t they all dead? European royalty had suffered a big blow after that nasty Valentine affair. Back in the USA you’d had to put up with having Biden for a president for a year until the election season rolled around again. “Which one?”

“Fortunately, that’s none of your concern. Your concern is their safety for the next month.”

“Huh?” Is that why you were there? A fucking _babysitting mission?_ You could give a gun to a high school girl and pay her nine bucks an hour to do the same thing. Trying to reinstate your professionalism you said, “Is there a… reason that this protection detail is needed, sir?”

“I’m sure we don’t need to be reminded about the state of leadership after a certain incident in the past. This undisclosed country lost a great deal of its ruling elite. It would be a shame to lose more.”

“Put her on the list,” Hendrick was whining into his sister’s shoulder, clinging to her like someone half his age. “I want to put her on the list!”

“You good with kids, Eggsy?” you muttered to him, shooting him a helpless look.

He considered it, shrugging. “Yeah, pretty good. You?”

“So far, with this one, fucking awful.”

“I’m not a kid!” Hendrick, evidently blessed with incredible hearing when his shitty self was being discussed, whined. “Gitta! Put him on the list!”

“Okay, I’m _seriously_ wondering about this list now.”

Gitta put him down and strode forward, giving you her hand. You weren’t sure how you were supposed to touch foreign royalty but you cautiously took it and shook it. She was the oldest out of all of them, haughty and imperious as expected, reminding you of Kinsey. (Though you shuddered to think what Kinsey could be like if she had royal power) Despite the lick-my-boots look about her she looked no older than seventeen, and you panicked at the possibility of having to treat high schoolers as your bosses for a whole month.

“Obviously, my name is Gitta,” she told you. “I’m the eldest here. You can answer to me for now. I’ve been planning this trip for months and I’ve been very careful about it. You’ve met Hendrick, and over there is…” She nodded to the two other girls, identical twins who looked about thirteen, who turned their heads to you and smiled and even blinked in tandem and you felt yourself slowly freaking the fuck out. “Heike and Ninette. They only really ever talk to each other so you just have to talk to me if you want to know anything.”

_Everyone in my life is a pain in the ass,_ you realized slowly, looking around at everyone who was going to make your life hell for the next four weeks. Well, except Eggsy, but you figured that it would be in your character to drunkenly confess some nonexistent love for him and get him to stop talking to you for the duration of the mission. “Well, it’s a pleasure to serve, Gitta. And you’re the eldest? That makes you in line for the throne, then?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. It’s Hendrick’s by rights. I don’t mind; it’s not what I cared about, frankly, and…”

But Hendrick was growing louder and louder, bawling at Heike’s (or Ninette? Fuck if you knew) skirts, gripping them with one hand while pointing at you with another. “The list! Gitta, make her go on the list!”

“Okay,” Eggsy broke in, now apparently disappointed that you hadn’t knocked the wind out of the kid more when you clotheslined him, “Just _what_ is the bloody list?”

“It’s...” Gitta sighed. “Really, don’t take offense to it. He’s just a kid. It’s just – Ninette was joking with him and told him that he can execute whoever he wants when he comes of age, but he needs to make a list to remember it. So – we’re pretending to make a list of it…”

“What kind of a fucking joke is that?” you demanded, wondering if these were the shittiest siblings of all time or if all royalty was like this. At least your brother, God rest his soul, had given you a kick to the ass when you acted that terrible in public. “He needs to know he can’t do that. Merlin, I…” But when you turned around your superior had vanished, probably under the guise of letting you handle this and acquire responsibility while secretly not wanting to deal with it any more than you did. “Oh, fuck.”

“You hit me,” Hendrick was going on, a shrill crescendo. “You’re not allowed to hit me. I’m gonna be the king. And then I’m going to eggs-cute you!”

Losing your composure, you got down to his level. “Listen here, you little asshole. I have a license to kill and I’m not afraid to use it.”

For once even the equally foulmouthed Eggsy was stunned. “Jesus fucking Christ, Lincoln! You can’t call a fucking crown prince an arsehole.”

“She doesn’t recognize those titles in Freedomland,” Ninette (or Heike – you’d need to tag them like cattle) broke in with a chortle, not exactly endearing herself to you, who was literally responsible for her safety.

“Yeah, you heard her, Galahad. We _elect_ our assholes instead of having them thrust upon us.” _For the mission. For the mission._ You took a deep breath, trying to regain your composure as Hendrick calmed down to pathetic little sniffles. “I’m totally fine. I apologize for that outburst, ma’ams, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“I understand,” Gitta stressed, shaking her head. “It’s fine. He’ll behave, I promise. Now, let’s talk about the itinerary. We’ll be in a safe house until two days from now, so then we’ll need to—”

Hendrick suddenly flew out from his spot between his twin sisters and went after you. This time you weren’t ready and took the full brunt of force when he kicked you so hard in the shin that your leg nearly splintered backwards.

“I _hate_ you! I _hate_ you!” he was bawling even as he kept hitting you, alternating between kicking you and hitting you in the stomach, wailing on you with all the force of his tiny, scrawny body. Oh, Kinsey would love you for this: getting beat up by a first grader. _Marvelous._

“I’m hit… Man down,” you wheezed to Eggsy as you tried to fight a war on two fronts, guarding your legs and your stomach, but to no avail. 

Now Eggsy was lowering himself to a child’s level, threatening to punt Hendrick so hard into the wall that Gitta would return to being next in line for the throne. When Merlin returned he found Hendrick sitting in the corner facing the wall, with you, wheezing and bruised, taking a breather as Eggsy and Gitta weighed the pros and cons using a child safety harness for the mission. After much deliberation he decided to send a report to Washington stating that the mission was starting off better than expected.


	5. Spoonmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you are not too big to bedshare.

_**Manner #2** \-- When receiving something, say "Thank you."_

It was two in the morning and you needed to be up at eight. You kept telling yourself that, as if it would make you fall asleep any faster. So far it wasn’t working out too well for you.

You technically had the day off to recover from the long flight you’d had, but your body didn’t quite feel like relaxing. Was it the jetlag that was keeping you awake? Couldn’t be; wasn’t jetlag supposed to make you tired and sluggish? (You didn’t know… They generally didn’t okay you for international travel after an unfortunate incident with TSA) Then was it nerves for the mission? Could be, but your mission didn’t start for another couple of days, though finalization of coordination needed to begin immediately. Which meant that you had discreetly visit Kinsey at the Kingsman safe house she’d be forced to call home until she regained her strength and update her on the mission and have her order you around some more just so you wouldn’t be completely fucking clueless in front of your new partner.

You should have been at the safe house too; at least, that was where you were supposed to be staying. But Kinsey had been retching up a storm and you selfishly wanted to avoid any line of action that involved you staying the night anywhere within her general vicinity. Eggsy had gallantly let you spend the night at his house, and foolishly, you had refused the offer to use his bed. You hadn’t wanted to kick him from his bed and had once lived on a couch for six months, so you thought that you could handle it. But you hadn’t been prepared for the extremely loud sound of a ticking clock and creaks of the house settling and other creepy ambience that set you on edge. The least creepy was the sound of J.B. at the foot of the sofa; he had taken a liking to you, which would have been a good thing, but you forgot how much pugs fucking snored and he was certainly living up to that reputation now.

To try to take your mind off things you tried to think of the mission, but that only made it worse. You had been certain that a babysitting mission would be easy as anything but your mind kept wandering down the same path, a path that ended in a thought: _Am I going to die?_ It was a morbid and fatalistic thing to concern yourself over, especially since Kingsman agents weren’t supposed to fear death, but you couldn’t help it. Whenever you told yourself no, that you would make it out fine, you could only remember your brother; he had been better than you at everything (and Kinsey was always quick to remind you that) and yet he had ended up as bloodied beyond recognition.

No! You couldn’t think about it. You burrowed yourself farther into your covers, desperately trying to think of nothing at all; maybe that would ease you into sleep. But kept working your way back to repressed thoughts, your brother’s funeral, the closed casket; when no one was around you had pried the lid open, desperate for one last look at the brother you had been missing for months, and quickly realized how bad of an idea that had been. Clearly it would have been better to leave him as a memory, for him to remain in your mind as being hale and healthy as you’d always remembered him.

When the memory of him came back to your mind for a third time you sprang off of the couch, nearly tripping over the coffee table as a result. No! You couldn’t do it, you couldn’t… The deafening sound of the clock ticking, J.B. snoring beneath you, the distant sound of traffic – it was too much! You wouldn’t be able to sleep at all from that place and you refused to stay there another minute.

You tugged your blanket tighter around you and wandered around the house, trying to figure out which room was Eggsy’s. If his door was locked you were screwed, but it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. You opened one door but found his baby sister instead. The second door you tried was the bathroom (or _the toilet_ — seriously, why was not putting everything in the same place a more reasonable option?). The third time was the charm and you finally made it to Eggsy’s room, standing next to his bed, trying to wake him up without touching him, lest he have a gun or something under the pillow that he was going to kill you with.

But instead of pulling out a gun he rolled over (thank God he was at least somewhat clothed, you would have a hard time explaining why you were standing over him watching him as he slept naked) and said your name sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. “Whaddy’ want? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically. “I mean, no. Not really.”

“Whattimesit?” He looked at the clock and cursed. “Fuck, what’s the matter?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Now you sounded like a six year old with monsters in the closet.

He pondered that for a moment. “Was J.B. keeping you up?”

“Well, yeah. And the clock. But…” Better come out and just say it! Would someone like Kinsey waffle around?! “Eggsy, can I… Uh…” You swallowed sharply. “Can I sleep with you?”

It sounded like the stupidest, most childish thing in the world when you said it. There was seriously no way you could make it sound better, more adult, or more professional, but just saying it made you feel better, even if he rejected it and sent you into a spiral of humiliation for the rest of the mission.

“Huh? You taking the piss?”

“I already went to the bathroom,” you told him, still confused and unclear on what that meant. “Can I? Just for tonight.”

You were used to jibes and taunts so you were naturally poised to receive them; and you definitely deserved it this time. But you had done nothing to Eggsy and thus he would never do anything to you, so he said, “Fuck it; all right. Come on in, yeah?”

Victorious, you clambered into his bed, burrowing underneath his covers. With your other blanket around you, you felt doubly warm despite the fact that he kept his house cold as fuck. (You would have written it off as an English thing but you recalled that at one point you had struggled through a winter with no heating thanks to a particularly tight financial situation) Though you kept a prudent distance from him, not wanting to jerk in your sleep and kick him in the groin or something, you couldn’t help but relax, feeling how close you were to another living, breathing human being who didn’t resent your existence.

“You steal the covers and you’re out,” Eggsy warned you, turning over to get back to sleep.

“Sounds fair to me.” At least you already had a blanket of your own. But you still felt a little cold, or maybe a little lonely. “Can I come over a little bit?”

Judging by his grumble he seemed to think it was fine, and you wriggled closer over to him. He seemed to radiate heat like a furnace and though you were tempted to press yourself against him, with a herculean effort you resisted.

“Eggsy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. I mean it…”

“Nah, it’s nothing. Get some sleep.”

You tried to comply, and though you felt more at-ease you still found yourself squirmy; you kept turning, unsure of whether to lie on your left side or your right. On your stomach and back you felt too spread-out, like you were threatening to take his bed, but sleeping on your side made you ache a little. And –

Eggsy, disrupted by you, said your name once more. “What’s it gonna take to make you fall the fuck asleep?”

You told him and he scoffed. Once he realized you weren’t joking, he hesitated, but perhaps the primal desire to just sleep affected his judgment, because after a long moment he agreed. For that you owed him, and owed him big time; you would have to really pull your weight for the mission. Of course, that would mean putting up with Kinsey belittling you in order to try to extract some advice from her, but you’d had the urge to hold another human being and had set out on a mission to do so whether you knew it or not. You had succeeded in the end and for that you knew you couldn’t be _that_ much of a fuck-up.


	6. Licence to Injure and/or Inconvenience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you do not do well with bullies.

_**Manner #15** — Do not make fun of anyone for any reason. Teasing shows others you are weak, and ganging up on someone else is cruel._

After you were finished preparing for your mission (and by that you meant stocking up your guns and preparing to take orders for the entire time) you decided to spend the day with Eggsy, getting to know him and discreetly trying to figure out if you had accidentally fondled him in your sleep. (Even with the potentially dangerous mission ahead of you, it was the main thing on your mind) Mostly, though, you wanted to prove to him that, despite the score of bad establishing character moments you’d had in front of him, you would be a competent and well-mannered partner for him. 

Not that you were off to a great start, just for that day. You had gotten ready first and were standing outside with J.B. on a leash when he had come out to meet you, dressed in his civilian clothes. “Holy shit, Eggsy. Is that you?” It was your first experience with a chav, and though you weren’t overly familiar with the subculture, Kinsey had informed you that they were considered to be all that was going wrong with England. To you it looked like twin styles, white trash gangbangers and ghetto, had put aside their differences to procreate. Not wanting to offend him you hurried on: “You look, uh… different!”

He grinned, totally accepting the interpreted reality where you were talking about how good he looked. “Can’t go around in suits all the time, yeah?”

“That’s quitter talk.” You weren’t wearing one either but you had a good reason for it; yours was at the safe house with Kinsey and you were procrastinating on going to see her for as long as possible. “Show me around, will you? I’ve never been to London before.”

So he did. The city really wasn’t as romantic as they made it out to be, all your old girl friends who got weak in the knees at the sound of a posh English accent and the thought of a good-looking foreign boy in a sweater vest. Mostly it seemed cloudy and sad, which you were at least familiar with. And you were still touchy about the mere idea of having to pay for the privilege of going to the bathroom.

“So what did you do, before Kingsman?” he asked you, the leash in his hands now; you had stopped to pet another dog and had given him back control. “ROTC or something?”

“Nah. Not for me.”

“Military, then? Coast guard? Army?”

That had been your brother and you frowned at the memory, your panic when he was deployed, the anxious months just waiting for a word back from him. He wasn’t the same way; he considered it his civic duty, that what better way to die than facing fearful odds, ashes of fathers, temples of gods and so forth. When he had returned safe and sound in all manner of the words you had thought that you were in the clear, that nothing bad could happen to him after that. Oh, such simpler times!

“No,” you admitted. “Though I did do some knife work for a while. And I got some training in martial arts.” And by that you meant that you had worked in the back of a kitchen for a stint while earning your living, and you had followed a paramour to some back-alley dojo and had gotten your ass handed to you. “But it’s not much of requirement… for us, at least. A lot of agents are ex-military. But there are a lot who didn’t make it into the CIA or FBI. You have to get rid of all your downloaded music before you apply. A big commitment.”

“Well, you’re named after presidents, right? You have a lot of positions.”

“Not _all_ of them… Nobody wants to be Nixon, or Clinton, or anybody recent, basically… And a lot of them think that Taft comes with a bad connotation. But other than that it’s open, except for the top dogs. Washington’s the head, of course… Franklin’s the right hand. But Jefferson, Roosevelt, Lincoln, Kennedy… Those are the best agents, the point men. Only prodigies get those positions.”

“So like you?” he prompted, and since you had forgotten for a moment that you were actually Lincoln you thus forgot to look proud of yourself and so he did that for you.

“Who, me? Oh…” You sweated, trying to play it off even if it did seem cocky to accidentally call yourself the best of the best, especially when you were, in comparison to Kinsey, a frankly shit-tier spy. “Well! You just had to pass the tests; that’s all.” Not that you had much of a choice. After your brother died, his only request that you be taken care of, Kingsman had tried to recruit you; upon your refusal they had gotten you fired and made sure you would never pass a background check again, so you had little choice but to complete them.

“Oh, yeah, I know about those.” Eggsy scoffed. “Were yours the same, then? Submerged under water?”

“They waterboarded you, too?” you exclaimed, shocked. “I thought that was an American tradition.”

Eggsy had seen a lot of shit in his day but even that startled him as he looked at you with shock, wondering just how the fuck you had said that so casually. “Holy hell, _no._ They fucking waterboarded you as a _test?_ ”

“It was for endurance,” you protested, though it had indeed been fucked up at the time. At least you’d managed to endure it. But then again, you had passed all your tests because that’s all you could do: endure. The British Kingsman might have emphasized skill and power, but the Americans were about what you could take, how long you could last; and people like you were eternal, the human face that the boot stamped on forever, so you were a prime candidate. “What about you, then? What did they have planned for you?”

“Typical stuff. You know; high-pressure problem-solving. Loyalty exercises.” He hesitated. “Uh, really basic. Raising a dog, being asked to shoot it. And then there was being under water—”

But you were listening. You whipped around to face him, disgusted. “Shooting fucking _dogs?_ What are you guys, _Nazis?_ ”

“They were _blanks_ , but—”

“Jesus, you guys are fucking freaks.”

“ _I_ didn’t do it,” he retorted hotly. “I mean – I didn’t know they were blanks, you know?”

“Well, good on you.” You wondered what would happen if a similar exercise happened back home. Everyone would probably fail; even cold, consummate professional Kinsey was unlikely to go through with it. “I think we did have one that was the same. The one where you had to seduce the target?”

“And then they drugged you? That was _fucked up._ ”

“May have almost failed that one,” you admitted. “I stood in the corner drinking tap water for twenty minutes before they managed to find some way to drug me. But, yeah… I’m sure our tests overlapped, you know? How long did they put you out in the desert for?”

“You what?”

“Nothing.” Your attention was focused in the distance now, watching an encounter in the distance. An older boy with a bike was bullying a younger one, mocking the way he dressed, the way he looked; he knocked the book out of the other one’s hands, and when the boy went to pick it up the older one stomped on his fingers. The younger one was in tears but was doing his best to keep it together, though the bully caught on and proceeded to worsen his attack, taunting the younger one for being a baby.

“Awful,” you grumbled, bending down to pick up a stick that lay against the curb. “Being ugly is universal.”

Eggsy had followed your gaze, scowling. “What a prick. You gonna do something or should I?”

“Oh, no. Can’t make trouble on my first few days in a foreign country, right? Who would watch that little abomination Hendrick if not me?” 

The bully, not unobservant, had noticed the approach of two young adults who might actually call him out on his usual exercise of bullying a smaller, weaker person. He took off, though was shortsighted enough to flee in your direction, perhaps believing that what was ostensibly a young couple walking a dog wouldn’t do much to actually stop him.

To be fair, you didn’t really stop him; you let mechanics do that. Rather than use your Kingsman skills for something deadly or useful you timed it so that you could perfectly push the stick in your hands between the spokes of his front wheel. Justice made the stick hold and the bicycle threw him off, doing a complete flip while the asshole took a rocketing faceplant on the ground.

“Sorry, but I just had to do that,” you grumbled, walking on briskly without a look behind you, thinking of all the times you’d been put down in the past, how you had waited for someone to help you and had found no one. “Teasing others just shows you’re really weak, Eggsy. Being a bully is the lowest thing you can do, right? You were never a bully, were you…?”

In truth – what you did for your training only mattered a little bit to him. The Lincoln he had expected to see was someone who would probably never do anything like that… and he was glad to have gotten you, instead. As strange as it might sound, anyway.


	7. You Only Live [redacted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you learn unpleasant things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i couldn't put the full title in seriousness because YOLO was the motto of my high school class
> 
> _stay classy_

_**Manner #22** — When someone helps you, say "thank you." That person will likely want to help you again. This is especially true with teachers!_

It was too tempting to live Kinsey to vomit and violently defecate by herself, but you knew that if you were terribly ill in a foreign country the last thing you wanted to be was alone. Though a top-tier spy like Marguerite Kinsey had doubtlessly spent countless hours in foreign countries without any contact home, she had probably never done so while needing to spend half that time in the vicinity of a toilet, so you did your best to be a good partner and went back over to the safe house where she was staying.

Thankfully you remembered the secret knock to enter, lest Kinsey shoot you through the door or something. Though you knew she still wasn’t feeling well she still sounded light on her feet as she went over the door to open it up.

“You’re late,” she told you, not like a big criticism, but what you expected; you _were_ almost two whole minutes late, which to Kinsey meant that you might as well have not even showed up. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you grumbled, locking the door behind you. “Sorry for taking so long, Kinsey. How are you feeling?”

“Awful.” But she was still Kinsey and she went over to sit down in the usual Kinsey fashion, her hands neatly folded on her lap, feet crossed at the ankles. She looked pale but alert, and as such she had enough energy to give you a critical look. “What’s your evaluation of the British cousins, Harrison?”

“I’m Lincoln now,” you reminded her, knowing that even though she would be above you forever, you at least had this one shining moment of technically being on her level. And that was gloating material that could theoretically last for months.”

“Between us? Not as long as I’m still breathing.”

Well, that seemed fair enough. “Galahad seems all right; I like him. Arthur… Merlin, whichever… is solid, responsible. So far, so good. It’s easy to see why they’re competent… it looks like they have a good foundation.”

“Don’t be so sure,” she warned you, making a face as she looked at the ground. That made you thing that for once her criticism wasn’t directed at you and that shocked you. “Have you noticed any weaknesses? Anything that concerns you?”

That baffled you. You’d thought that that was the last thing she wanted to hear about. “Well, I’m not looking to complain.”

She had some tea for herself already made – perhaps it was the only thing she could keep down. She treated such things carefully but at this she nearly slammed the cup down to the saucer. “Keep your wits about you, Harrison. Don’t be drawn in because of some charming Englishman exterior. And above all, don’t get close.”

“Don’t get close?” You scoffed. “Kinsey, this is an olive branch mission. We’re supposed to be playing nice, being partners.”

“ _Business_ partners,” she clarified, giving you a severe look, like you just didn’t understand, like you were being naïve; you were used to the look. “You don’t buddy up with your business partners. You certainly don’t go to bed with them.”

It looked like you were fucked in that regard. “Ah, I see… We need to maintain a respectful distance, right? That’s what you’re saying? We need them to take us seriously.”

She gave you a long look but just shrugged. “Yes, of course.”

“What about you, Kinsey? Are you feeling any better?” You paused, wondering how far you should pursue the matter. You had to be subtle; you didn’t want to stroll in with a top hat and a swelling score behind you as you did a little dance and sang, _I poisoned you!_ “Do you know what’s wrong?”

“I can’t be sure unless I get examined and I’m not shipping a Kingsman medic in from America. It will worry Washington and I don’t want him asking questions.”

“Why don’t you just have someone here look at you?”

Again she gave you that severe look. “Never mind that. Anyway, I think it was the soup. I’ve never had Tuscan bean soup; I should have gone with something I’ve had before. Routine is good, Harrison. Remember that.”

“Yeah, I’ll squirrel that one away. You think you’ll be ready for the mission?” At once you were relieved and disappointed; you were glad to have someone competent dealing with this, but on the other hand, you had actually gotten a little excited at the thought of working together with Eggsy on this. 

“I’m not sure. I have a delicate system. It’s the first time in years that it’s been upset.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean – since it’s been established and all that you have a really bad case of food poisoning.”

“We’re getting away from the issue here, Harrison…”

“Yes! We totally are!” Relieved to be moving on from her getting closer to your total guilt, you nodded, covering it all up with an air of neat professionalism. “Yes; I’ll keep you updated on everything, Kinsey. I know, I know… You’re still my superior and all.”

“Of course. You’re properly carrying?”

“Oh, yeah. Thank God we have licensing and everything or else I’d definitely get nailed for terrorism.”

She nodded, though she had a scowl on her face; you had most of the weapons with you and the only substantial weapon she had for herself was a handgun. Well! It was called a _safe_ house, right? “Only declare 2/3rds of your weapons, Harrison. Never let them know of everything you had hidden. You always need something to use against them.”

That had already gone out the window, seeing as how you apparently couldn’t hide anything in a thigh pocket without Eggsy Unwin sticking his hands down your pants to root it out. But even then – what did it matter? Why was she acting like you were working with the enemy when you were never supposed to be more buddy-buddy? Apprehension crawled at your spine and despite all your training for subtlety and enigmatic indirectness you burst, “What do you have against the agents here?”

You were often impressed by how Kinsey never had a hair out of place. Honestly, you really didn’t remember a time when she was anything other than composed and unruffled, even when dismantling a bomb as you did your best to remain confident that she wasn’t going to kill the both of you. But with those words, the honest question, she seemed to unravel: her gaze snapped up to your face with pure venom as her hands balled up into fists, nearly crushing the cup she was holding. With force that cracked the saucer she slammed it onto the table beside her and pointed to a chair beside you. She was wordless and that was what terrified you. She always had a reservoir of precise words to hit you with when solid objects couldn’t suffice and you wondered what sort of macabre story time this would be.

“These people,” she spat when you sat on your hands, “that you think we should be _allied_ to, were responsible for the death of your brother. Do you understand? Your brother was _killed_ because of them.”

Silence, from both you and her. The only sound you heard was of the clock ticking in the distance and of the heavy sound of Kinsey’s breathing. Her chest was rising and falling as she gripped the sides of her chair, and for the first time you saw something resembling tears in her eyes as she looked at the ceiling.

“My brother…” You stopped, then tried again. “My brother was killed in Cambodia.” It was the most you knew; his file was splattered with _CLASSIFIED_ stamps. “What would that have to do with anyone here?”

She closed her eyes. “It was – years ago. You would remember. July. A few weeks after I had gotten sick for… the last time before this. We were investigating a runaway. Tadthon Thawan; a diplomat had lost his daughter in a trafficking operation and after we got her back we were to kill him. He escaped. No one’s fault. Ended up in Cambodia, but we were right after him. We knew where he was. It was supposed to be so _easy…_ ”

Now she opened her eyes again, but like before she couldn’t look at you. Her eyes were distant as she submerged herself in the memory. “He got captured during reconnaissance. I don’t even know how. At the time we didn’t know that Thawan would have backup waiting for him in Cambodia – we thought it would be just him, maybe a couple of grunts. We thought…”

“Bullshit,” you broke in, though it didn’t come out as angry as you wanted. You were _baffled._ “A three-man operation takes down an entire genocidal organization just last year and you can’t take down, what, a dozen mercenaries by yourself?”

For once it was you making her flustered, panic setting in her eyes even as she stayed still in her seat. “You don’t _understand_ … I tried, over and over again. I had lost my suit and I was running low on weaponry. I was using _crowbars,_ Harrison. And I still wasn’t at the top of my game. But…” At this she finally gained some energy, sitting straighter in her chair. Though you sat across from her at some distance you could still hear her grinding her teeth. “I called for backup. There were three lower-level Kingsman agents stationed just a few miles away. The British branch, Harrison; they were stocked up, could easily take everyone out. I must have called a hundred times. They told me they’d been ordered to stand down. You have to remember that they still hadn’t gotten over the falling-out. And by the time Washington was able to send American reinforcements, he was already dead.”

In the past it had seemed unsettling to you that Kinsey rarely displayed emotion of either extreme, and you had never seen her cry, but for once she was overcome with emotion as she looked at you. You knew that your brother meant a lot to her but you had no idea that she had had to wait around for him to die like this. She told you, “Harrison, I’m _sorry._ There was nothing I could do.”

So that was it. Was it true? Had your brother died because the cousins had refused to help him? Once more the sight of him in the coffin flashed across your eyes. You weren’t even sure of how he died – at best they said he’d been shot in the head after being beaten but the worst and most improbable was the claim that they had stuck a live grenade in his mouth and let it go off. Had it really been so preventable, so _unnecessary?_ Your brother, your big brother, the one who would carry the sled up the hill for you on a snow day, who made sure you didn't fall off when you cried _Hold me!_ and clung to him for protection, who had put encouraging sticky notes into your lunchbox when it was down to just you and him – was he really gone because the cousins had been so _petty?_

“So that’s why,” she finished, the emotion leaving her eyes as quickly as it came as she regained her usual emotional equilibrium. “That’s why I’ll never want to get close to them. If Washington wants to repair relations, fine. I do whatever I’m asked. The need for cooperation is bigger than that incident. But I’ll be damned if I’m expected to act like I can depend on them for anything.”

You were silent for a long time. Kinsey was looking at you like she wanted to know what you were thinking, but truth be told you weren’t sure yourself. It was too much all at once and though Kinsey was the sick one between the two of you, it was you who stood on unsteady legs as you made your way over to the door.

“Thanks for telling me,” you mumbled, shaken to your foundations. How could you go back and face your partner when you would have that on your mind for the entire time? True, he wouldn't have been a part of Kingsman when it went down, but nearly everyone else he was involved with was. And that included your new temporary boss.

For the first time she smiled, passing the back of her hand across her eyes quickly. “You’re welcome, Harrison. Remember, you can rely on me. You’re free to ask me for help until I recover.”

It was perhaps the nicest thing she’d said to you since you knew her, and probably the only time since you’d been her assistant of sorts that she actually wanted to be helpful. But you weren’t sure if you ever wanted to return.


	8. For British Eyes Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you enjoy art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you spot the many references in this chapter? _for British eyes only_

_**Manner #8** — When people ask you how you are, tell them and then ask them how they are._

You weren’t certain what sort of appeal an art museum might have to a kid like Hendrick, but sure enough, he wanted to go. _Demanded_ that he go, which of course meant that the mission started on hard mode: he (almost deliberately, it seemed) picked an extremely public location with a wide perimeter to cover and a load of people inside, and of whom could want to assassinate him for some vague political reason.

Luckily, it seemed that no one even recognized the royal family. Maybe you weren’t the only one who wasn’t too familiar with the remnants of some obscure Scandinavian royal family. In truth, seeing them at a distance just made you think of some oddball group of siblings out for an educational visit to see some art. It made you a little envious to see them all there together, huddled into a little sibling group and going from exhibit to exhibit with wide-eyed interest. Once again you were reminded that you didn't have that, thanks, apparently, to Kingsman itself; but you couldn't be too bitter about it when you were with Eggsy, who wasn't even an agent when when your brother died. And you were trying to keep a good mood while everything was going so smoothly. Even Hendrick was behaving himself quite well, which put you at ease, even though you knew that you were apparently still on his hit list.

“Perimeter secured,” you told Eggsy through your comm. In actuality nothing seemed different than before, which you hoped meant that all was well. But it seemed so much more impressive to use professional jargon, even if you didn’t quite feel like a bodyguard. “I’m over by that shitty painting you mentioned, the boy with the apple. Where are you?”

“Staring at some big fucking blocks of color,” he said. “Is this seriously supposed to be art? I could do this myself and I don’t exactly consider myself Michaelangelo.”

“I think I passed that earlier… Hold on, I’ll come to you.”

You had only looked at the work of art in passing and therefore your mind had fancied it up to look somewhat more impressive than what it actually was: four large squares of identical size, each a different shade of blue. It looked like something you could draw up in less than an hour. Maybe you could have trussed it up to sell to some sap in a gallery, but it seemed out of place in a museum. Not that you were the be-all end-all authority of what was and wasn’t art. And besides, you were part of Kingsman, known for being elegant and high-class gentlemen, and you tried your best to spin yourself to be an appreciator of art, even if you didn’t understand it. At the very least, the real Lincoln probably was, and you tried to resemble her. (What you didn’t know was that Kinsey had zero interest in art and considered it to be a waste of time, so it was a largely a misplaced effort)

“Looks like a fucking mistake to me,” Eggsy said when you reached his side. The two of you were dressed professionally, and therefore looked like you perfectly belonged in the establishment, though such an observation would probably get you some dirty looks if you said it too loud.

You furrowed your brow, taking a hard look at it. Well, you could leave the professional analysis to whoever had a degree in art. “Well… Maybe how it looks doesn’t matter. I was always told – _how does it make you feel?_ ”

Eggsy frowned, staring at the work critically. Easing into a posh accent he said, “It makes me feel… like I could do this myself, but I’m not the one getting a lot of fucking money off of it.”

“Yeah, pretty much the same for me, too.” You looked over to find that, happily, the royal family was keeping themselves close. “Not as good as the big ceramic cock I found in the northeast corner. Better keep the young ones away from that one.”

He flashed you a lopsided grin. “Oh, really? And how did _that_ make you feel?”

Oh, Christ. _Don’t get aroused in an art museum. This is the least sexy place ever. You’re going to look like an asshole._ “I bet you’d like to hear that, wouldn’t you…?”

The royal family moved onto the next work, and you and Eggsy moved to stand in front of the painting that they had lingered at. It had an unnecessarily long foreign title, but to you the painting needed no explanation. It was a beautiful portrait of a landscape, a grassy cliff that overlooked a wide expanse of ocean at sunset. Standing atop the cliff at a prudent distance from the edge were two small children, ostensibly siblings with matching outfits to boot, holding hands as they watched the setting sun. You could only see them from the back, and you wondered what their faces were like. Maybe awe, but you guessed that it was a difficult emotion to paint. 

You guessed that you were supposed to be feeling awe, too, but instead you felt melancholy. Hadn’t you been in such a position with your own brother? Of course, there was an age when you could no longer hold hands with a sibling, but you could distinctly remember toddling around at a young age, at the beach or the supermarket, holding onto his hand like a lifeline. _Don’t wander off; Mom told me to watch you,_ he would have said sternly. When you grew older you wanted to be independent, desiring to get out of the shadow of your objectively more impressive older sibling, and so you would have snatched your hand away had he tried it again. That made you feel guilty, and you hated 20/20 hindsight. Had you known what was going to happen, you would have made sure to cling to him whenever you got the chance.

“Now this one makes me feel more impressed,” Eggsy observed, stretching a little. “I mean, this took some real effort, yeah? What about you?”

When you didn’t answer right away he looked over at you to find you looking melancholy, your gaze a little distant and unfocused as you frowned. “It makes me feel…” You searched for a better word, couldn’t find it. “It makes me feel lonely.”

He wasn’t sure why it would – it didn’t seem like the type of painting that would make someone feel alone – and he wondered if he was missing some deeper meaning that the painting kept locked away. (And whatever it was, it made him sort of want to punch a hole into it for troubling you so. But he was sure that that would be frowned upon by the museum employees) But he had a high IQ, and unlike others with the same thing his EQ wasn't too shabby either, and he would consider it somewhat a failure to let a partner feel terrible on a mission.

“Well, you’re not alone,” he said, trying to cheer you up a little bit. In a reflection of the subjects in the painting he laced his fingers with yours and held your hand. “Partners, right, Lincoln?”

You couldn’t see your reflection, but you wondered if that’s what you looked like. Maybe a little less like that… Maybe leaning more towards some well-dressed, upper-class couple viewing art together. Or was that just wishful thinking? Whatever it was, it was definitely unprofessional to start to redden – Kinsey never seemed to change color even after exertion, like some sort of android – and you did your best to inconspicuously cover your face with your free hand by fixing your hair.

“Right,” you agreed. You weren’t sure how long you were supposed to hold onto his hand, or if you were supposed to be holding on at all, so you didn’t let go. Before you moved away to flank the royal family you took one last look at the painting, before looking down between the two of you. Between the held hands of figures in the portrait and the real flesh and blood between you and your partner – there seemed to be something distinctly different in the semantics, though you weren’t quite sure what it was just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _for British eyes only_


	9. Royale with Cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you do not take well to fancy foods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: what's this. where's the spaghetti. why do i want this fancy french stuff. _give me the spaghetti_

_**Manner #23** — Use eating utensils properly. If you are unsure how to do so, ask your parents to teach you or watch what adults do._

Watching over someone like Hendrick taught you your place in the world, every day, but not so clear as when he went out to eat. In your lifetime you had begged for reservations when trying to impress a date, had waiters ignore you like you weren’t good enough for even them, and you found yourself getting seated next to a bathroom a disproportionate amount of times.

As for the royal family: Hendrick demanded to go to a restaurant that his father had liked, one that happened to be the most expensive and exclusive in all of London. And of course, he got in with no reservation, got the best seat in the house, and even got the chef to personally come out to meet him. And what did he want from him? Well – the chef, world-renowned, was privileged enough to make macaroni and cheese for the royal son.

“Well, now he gets to eat with the silver spoon he was born with,” you conceded. Truth be told, you’d probably throw your weight around and abuse privileges if you were in his position. Meanwhile, you and Eggsy were flanking the young king-to-be, making sure that nothing he ate was poisoned despite the fact that you would most likely be less than helpful in that regard. 

The food came out and you suddenly realized how much cutlery was there beside you; it seemed to have multiplied from the last time you looked down. So many forks! And what were you supposed to do with that spoon?! You had a salad! And how – _two_ knives?! You could use one for everything!

True, you had never been in a restaurant this fancy before in your life. That was way out of your pay level, and besides, you would have hated yourself for picking a place that cost so much to eat so little food, and food that tasted so _strange._ Even being a part of Kingsman, you weren’t entirely used to the experience, and usually you just winged it without caring much for whoever was watching.

But this time, they _were_ watching. You had an audience of a royal family, and British cousins, to boot. Why hadn’t you paid attention to Kinsey’s explanation on table manners?! Well... It was her fault to begin with! Whenever she had a mission that involved a restaurant, she would just ship you to the nearest fast food place and make you wait as backup. Now you were totally out of your element! The silverware was real, not just flimsy plastic! And you were eating on plates that looked more expensive than the bespoke suit you were wearing! And you had to _impress everyone…_

_No big deal,_ you told yourself, keeping your hands in your lap despite the fact that your salad had been in front of you for more than two minutes now. _I’ll just see what the royal family’s eating with…_ But you looked around to find the girls without appetizers, smiling blandly at Hendrick eating with his hands. _Okay, scratch that. What about Eggsy…?_

You slid your gaze over surreptitiously to find that Eggsy was in the exact same physical position as you. He smiled at you and jerked his head towards your appetizer. “Why don’t you get started, Lincoln?” he said, with that fucking posh accent again. (Why wasn’t there any cool American accent you could try to make yourself sound better? Sure, there was the neutral Midwestern accent, but that sounded like you were talking through your nose…) “Looks quite delicious, if I may say so.”

_You bastard!_ Was he trying to showcase your flaws, to prove that you had no idea what to do in this situation? That wasn’t something that a partner should do! Well! You would never let it show! “Oh no. Rude of me to start eating first, diving in like some American pig. Where I, uh, come from, we wait for the guest of honor to start eating before we do…” (You weren’t sure if that was true, but you swore that you read it in some Miss Manners column somewhere)

“Huh?” Hendrick asked through a mouth full of mozzarella sticks (you weren’t sure that the restaurant normally served those either, but they had appeared nonetheless). Okay; so much for that excuse being a viable option.

“Well, you know what they say about ladies first,” Eggsy pressed, still without going for his utensils. “I’m sure your etiquette is very impressive, Lincoln. How about you demonstrate for the royal family?”

_Oh, shit._ The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, and you looked at your partner with horror. _Eggsy has no idea what he’s doing, either!_ He was waiting for _you_ to go for your cutlery so he could be sure what he was supposed to be doing!

“That’s a good idea,” Gitta jumped in, trying to help you out without realizing just how misguided that was. “We’ve gotten a bit lax with English customs since – well – we’ve been eating alone. Why don’t you give us a quick lesson?”

_Oh, holy fucking shit._ So not only were you giving an impromptu etiquette lesson to a bunch of royalty in the context of a country whose etiquette you already weren’t familiar with, you were also filling in for said family’s apparently dead parents. Even _Hendrick_ had taken a break from the mozzarella to look at you expectantly. Jesus Christ. You’d felt less pressure when you were defusing a bomb that was going to take out the White House.

“Okay,” you said, trying to keep your tone as bright as possible. “Okay, well… You know I’m American, so you’ll forgive me if I make any, uh, mistakes...” Which you were _definitely_ going to do, but hopefully they wouldn’t be anything major. _Relax! Just relax!_ You must have seen Kinsey eating before, and though you usually ignored her and her tiny bird portions, you desperately trying to come up with the memories of how she handled the cutlery.

Your hands floated above the cutlery. This should be the easy part, right? Just picking the right fork to use. “Well, when we’re taking up a utensil…” God, they all looked the same! What did it matter if some of the fork tines were longer than the other? It wouldn’t change the fact that the salad was going in your mouth! You briefly recalled Kinsey saying something about etiquette; something about an easy rule. “Going from the inside, out…”

You looked up to see the twins and even Hendrick watching you eagerly, Eggsy doing his best to pretend like he wasn’t taking notes from this, but Gitta had her mouth shut tight and you could make out a barely perceptible shake of her head from side to side. “…is something you never do here,” you finished quickly, moving your hands to the fork that was farthest from the plate. “Start from the outside and work your way inside.” You looked up surreptitiously to find a relieved Gitta nodding.

“Now, you’ll hold your fork in your dominant hand…” You looked up again; nope, she shook her head again, this time a little faster. “…when you’re in America, of course, but this is the Continental style, so you’ll keep it in your… left hand, with a knife in your right.”

“That’s the same as back home,” Heike (or Ninette, whatever) said, excited to know the right answer.

“Yeah! I, uh, knew that… To be a member of our organization, you have to know this etiquette thing, you know…” And with that you gave Eggsy a triumphant look: you hadn’t totally fucked it up. Until, perhaps, the main course, but then you would throw him under the bus for that one.

Despite the fact that the restaurant was, again, renowned, you were totally unused to some of the ingredients they used and you found your entrée to be sophisticated and utterly disgusting; twice you had to resist gagging (you were able to recover with a delicate cough with a napkin held to your lips) and to your revulsion you had to finish your plate after seeing how the royal family wolfed their own food down. You looked over helplessly to Eggsy, who seemed equally unchallenged in downing such strange cuisine. He was English, wasn’t he? Weren’t they known for shitty food anyway? He must have been used to it, but you weren’t. Just what had you put down your throat…?

You politely excused yourself to use the restroom and ended up spitting most of your meal back up into the toilet before scraping off your tongue with edge of the knife you’d had concealed as an emery board. You resisted feeling awful; you were victorious. You’d _made_ it! The dinner was on easy mode, true, but you’d made it through while looking halfway good yourself!

After you returned the royal family to their housing, you bumped into Eggsy again. Though your mood was high, you couldn’t help but shoot him a glare. “Thank for all the help with the cutlery, _Eggsy._ ”

“What? I was just making sure _you_ knew.”

“I’m sure… That’s why you let your soup get cold until I went on the lecture about the spoons, right? Well… That was all bullshit, anyway, I made it up…” You frowned, wondering once more about the English palate. “How’d you like the place? I’ve never been into anything so swanky.”

He shrugged, looking down. “Oh, yeah. Food was great. Loved it.”

“Ah, really?”

“Nah. Threw up in an alley when you were taking them home.”

“Well, good to know that you can incapacitate Kingsman’s finest with some expensive food.”

“What, you too?” He mulled that over. “You wanna go grab something cheap?”

“Yeah, sure… Why the hell not.”

He got a slightly evasive look on his face, maybe too casual. “You staying over again tonight?”

“Can I? God, yes.” You had spent the other night back in the safe house with Kinsey and immediately regretted it. Despite the fact that she was still weak, she nevertheless got up at the crack of dawn to do laps around the place.

“You know,” he said as the two of you went off to find some 24-hour fast food place, “you’re a lot different from what I expected, you know? From what I heard, anyway.”

Your heart jumped in your chest; did he know? Did he suspect that you weren’t actually Lincoln, that you were a true blue bullshitter? “Ah… Really?” You started to sweat, then changed the nature of the question. “Better or worse than you expected?”

Eggsy grinned, bumping you so that you nearly tripped off the sidewalk. “Oh; much better.”

You did end up spending the night at his house again; by now his mother was giving you winking looks when you passed her in the hall. With a heroic effort you’d tried to sleep on the couch again, the loyal J.B. still hounding you and insisting to sleep by you, but you gave up the ghost somewhere around two in the morning. By then Eggsy didn’t even really wake up, just rolled over to one side, like even his subconscious was expecting you.


	10. Dr. ... Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something about you is found out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [beaten to death for the title]

_**Manner #25** — Don't reach for things at the table; ask to have them passed._

Is it that hard to believe that Eggsy was curious about you? He had been working with you for about a week, but he still felt like he barely knew anything about you, much less anything about the American branch of Kingsman. So you were enigmatic; wasn’t that to be expected? At the very least, that was one of the ways you reflected how the real Lincoln was supposed to be acting. And it wasn’t like you refused to answer anything about your interests or some aspects of what you did before you came to England, but nearly anything else he asked about your time in Kingsman, besides what he knew already, was met with the most minimal of answers.

Well – he assumed you were a legendary spy, after all. Lincoln’s reputation preceded her by miles in the world of Kingsman, which didn’t mean much elsewhere considering how enigmatic said world was in the first place. So maybe you were just shy about all the exotic missions you’d been on, all the locales that you must have seen that he could never have. And what could someone do in such a situation? Well, of course – he did have an Internet connection and access to Kingsman files.

Eggsy knew that the two branches of Kingsman hadn’t always been the best of friends, but at least things were starting to patch up, since Merlin had told him that they had just recently gotten access to the records of the American branch. Which mean, of course, that your partner could legally look up whatever he wanted to in regards to your personal information and professional history. But that naturally wasn’t what he _wanted_ to do. He had just wanted to see what you were like in America, since it seemed so different to how you acted in England, and around him.

He pulled up the file on Agent Lincoln, but was surprised to find that there wasn’t much there to look at: everything seemed to be classified or redacted and there wasn’t even so much as a photograph of you for him to look at. The last update available to the cousins seemed to have been made three years ago. So much, he supposed, for absolute transparency between the branches, unless the Americans enjoyed being laughably out of date and/or secretive. 

Of course, that didn’t bother him; he believed that you were as impressive as they said you were, as incongruous as you seemed to be with your own legend. And if you were that good, how were your fellow agents? He hadn’t heard of you mention any even though you had met a few of the cousins, and so he took the opportunity to sift through the digital files on your coworkers. Had you known he was going to do it, you would have sooner smashed the multimillion dollar technology to smithereens than let him do it, but you were away, trying your best to resist spanking Hendrick as he demanded that he buy out the entire candy section of the store.

_Agent Adams: Mathilde Lace-Beauchamp._ If the name was any indication, it seemed the Americans recruited the wealthy into Kingsman, too. The agent herself looked at him through her ID photo with a head raised proudly and with a look in her eyes that seemed a clear request to fuck, and he hastily shifted to the next agent. _Agent Roosevelt: Danson Hayes._ His look wasn’t quite sexual but something veering on contempt, and he most likely having gotten up early for the photo. _Agent Kennedy…_ Redacted, as was most information on the agent, though his picture was still available: he had the set-jaw blazing confidence about him, no different from the bleeding hearts that joined the army at a young age. Eggsy had been able to see the names of all agents who wielded the alias in the past, but there seemed to have been no Kennedys since a few years ago; at the bottom of the page it simply stated, _Retired._

Though he wasn’t on a mission to memorize anything he had a time flipping through the other agents, the minor ones not considered a part of the core Kingsman force, in order to see just how many presidents they managed to cover. He was just about to finish when the page for the next agent came up. And it was a face that he recognized.

_Agent Harrison,_ it said. The ID photo wasn’t quite flattering, and the woman portrayed looked more wide-eyed than ready, like the flash of the camera had surprised her. Nothing was redacted: that was your name, and your place of birth, and what was apparently your birthday, height, weight… It was _you!_ But how could it be you?! You were Lincoln; that’s what you’d told him. Wasn’t that right? _Lincoln._ One of the first things you’d said to him. Back when you’d surprised him by being… the exact opposite of what he’d expected.

Was it a mistake? Maybe you’d been promoted. But unlike the other pages, yours was pretty much up to date, last updated just a week before. _Active,_ it said boldly across the top of the screen, but then in a smaller note, _remain on low-level missions._ What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Were you not allowed to work on important missions? Because what you were currently on was one hell of a _high-level mission._ You were baby-sitting a future _king_ , for fuck’s sake!

Was it true, then? Had you lied to him? To the entire organization? Were you not supposed to be there in the first place? At least you weren’t some terrorist masquerading as Lincoln, _that_ was good news, but why were you pretending to be her in the first place? Were you under orders? Was he being tested? Or were you just fucking with him? Unless it was some big American secret and asking Merlin about it would ruin everything. And he had to meet up with you in a couple of hours. Which meant that he had to sit by you like he didn't know that you'd been dishonest with him for the whole time and for once he'd have to shut his big fat chav mouth about the whole situation.

The next time Eggsy saw you was at dinner, when you were surrounded by the royal family. He found it strange to sit across from you; he didn’t quite feel betrayed – he still liked you, after all – but it shocked him to watch you try to deceive him with an easy air about you. Why hadn’t you just told him your real codename? The fuck did it matter who you were? Unless there was something insidious about it all. Fuck… It was so hard to keep his mouth shut about something like that, he was practically _squirming_ sitting in such close proximity to you, but he kept it together. The last thing he wanted was for the royal family to think that the two of you were anything but a well-oiled machine and freaking out about the identity of their supposed trusted bodyguard in front of them wasn’t exactly going to put them at ease.

“Is everything okay?” you asked him, breaking the silence. Despite the question, you yourself didn’t seem to realize what he was thinking and you looked at him with a bland, uncomprehending expression. “You haven’t touched your meatloaf.”

“Yeah, I…” Well, it wasn’t like it was appetizing in the first place but he had to foot the bill this time and he wanted to eat as cheaply as possible. He looked up automatically for the salt and realized that it was closer to you. Before Kingsman he would have just leaned across the entire table to get it but he was in public, dressed well, surrounded by royalty. For him this seemed to be the hardest task of all, and he’d had to singlehandedly take down half an army before.

“Could you pass the salt…” _…Harrison?_ He wondered what you’d do if he said that. The blood draining from your face, fork halfway up to your mouth, a glazed look in your eyes as the realization caught up with you. What would that earn him? A knife to the face, probably, before he had time to react. Just because you might not be Lincoln didn’t meant that you didn’t have her skill set. (Oh! If only he knew! You _wished,_ you’d seen Kinsey break into a high-level security center with just a feather duster…)

“…Lincoln?” he finished, deciding that it really might not be worth it. You were still a Kingsman agent, after all, and more importantly, he really did like you. So if you were bullshitting or pretending or underneath some big American secretive agenda (not like that was a good way to start a partnership, but whatever), you would have to tell him eventually, right? That’s not the sort of thing you could keep locked away forever. It would come out, eventually.

“Oh, sure,” you replied affably, handing him the salt shaker. “Is that all it was? Shitty meatloaf? Well, you should have ordered the frog legs that Hendrick and I are having now; they’re quite good…”

“Don’t try to befriend me,” Hendrick snapped, “you’re still on the list…”

“What, you _still_ hoping that I get killed?” You scoffed. “Yeah, I’m sure the best thing for this mission is for me to die halfway through it…”

And it was a bit coincidental that you said that, considering what was going to happen the next day.


	11. Die, Eventually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you do not fare well.

_**Manner #18** — Cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze._

By then you had already fallen into a routine: roll out of bed, check on Kinsey, then eat breakfast by yourself. To have a ritual was a comforting thing to you, especially given how unpredictable the rest of your day usually was. Just the other day Hendrick had loudly talked about how much he hated Ireland in front of a few Irishmen and you swore that you saw your first gray hair in the mirror after that. At least you could rely on Gitta, but the twins made a habit of switching positions (knowing you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart) and the night before had seen you running all over London, convinced that you’d lost Ninette when really they were just taking turns playing her in order to scare you. And to top it all off, Eggsy was acting strangely around you – not in a good way, like he was secretly lusting after you but too noble to admit it, but like you had done something to badly offend him and he didn’t want to spend another moment with you. (Was it just one too many complaints about England? Oh! If only you’d known! You would have limited yourself…)

Well – thank God for routine, then. Same café for breakfast every morning, the bread rolls in your hand something like a stress ball. At least one good thing had happened recently; after continuously pushing herself to improve and thereby making herself worse, Kinsey had finally taken your advice and had stayed in bed all morning. Was that a good omen for the rest of the day? You hoped so. You had to babysit Hendrick again and the last thing you wanted was for him to smear feces on a portrait of the Queen or something.

“Hopefully it’s an easy day today,” you mentioned to Eggsy as the two of you flanked His Royal Fucking Whateverness. “I mean – it’s just Hendrick. Not that he’s not handful enough for five people.”

“Hmm.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Hendrick snapped, fixing those evil little dark eyes on you. “Don’t laugh at me. People who laugh at me go on the list.”

“Yeah, well, I’m already on it.”

“I wanna see the giant panda,” he whined, changing gears with incredible force. “They’re gonna let me pet the giant panda!”

“Not sure that’s going to go over well. Hey, Galahad, have you ever been to the London zoo? Is it nice?”

“Yeah,” was as much of an answer as he would commit to.

“Well, good. Don’t want to disappoint Your Grace…”

It was the summer – but was it an inordinately hot day or something? Your throat was dry and though your first reaction was to cough and hack, you recalled what Kinsey had told you once: _Cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze. Preferably with your elbow so you don’t make your hands filthier than they already are. Do this especially in public or else everyone will avoid you._ That was a rule you actually already followed so you delicately coughed into your sleeve. (Good to know this ultra-expensive bulletproof custom suit was now catching your germs or whatever)

“Don’t get your American diseases on me,” Hendrick spat, waving you away even though nothing had happened at all around him. “ _I_ got my shots.”

“Jesus – I’m not sick, it was just a _cough._ And you do know that basically nobody believes that anti-vaccination thing, right…?”

Except maybe you _were_ sick: your stomach did a little flip and on instinct you held it, wondering what was wrong. It wasn’t like you’d been adventurous in your choice of breakfast; you’d ordered what you always had. Unless they put something different in it this time? Maybe the cook hadn’t washed his hands properly! (Oh, God! You were turning into Kinsey!)

But sure enough you felt no better as the minutes stretched on. “Hey,” you said, trying to sound like you were doing everyone a favor, “how about we get a car pulled around and just drive the rest of the way? Much safer, you know… Much more discreet.”

“I don’t _want_ to,” Hendrick whined. “Gitta got her arm broken in a car accident once. It’s _scary._ ”

“Are you kidding? How did you get around back home?!”

“If he says we can’t, we can’t,” Eggsy said, giving you the first full coherent sentence of the day; shame it had to sound so damn disapproving. Just what had you done to get on his bad side? And was it outside the realm of possibility to get a time machine to go and fix it?!

“Well – I’m just saying. So much easier for you to get assassinated and everything, while we’re out in the open.”

Eggsy shot you a startled look, the first time he’d actually looked at you all day. “Fuck, don’t _say_ that! At least not in _front_ of him.”

You were going to shoot back _But it’s true!_ but you were overcome with another cough and once more you did it into your sleeve. Jesus, what was wrong? You’d gotten enough fluids before you left for work, right? And it’s not like you were hungover or sick or tired or anything. No – everything was normal, perfectly normal.

This cough came deeper from the chest, more raggedy like a choke, and this time your partner noticed. “All right?”

You resisted the urge to admit that _no,_ something was decidedly not all right. It wasn’t a Kingsman thing to do, not something a tough and competent bodyguard would do, so you repressed it. Britishness, that’s right; stoic indifference, emotional constipation, repressing everything. Kinsey would be proud of your transformation into a competent model.

It wasn’t long now; you were nearly to the zoo. That should have been a relief but you were sweating bullets, hair sticking to your brow and your entire body feeling heavy. This was beyond _not all right,_ oh, something was _wrong._ You felt purely out-of-shape, a portrait of yourself in your younger years, like just walking across the pavement was an effort. You felt like someone had lit your blood on fire and when you touched your cheek your skin seemed to scald you. And as your throat got tighter and drier, your stomach began to turn. When it felt like it was completely upside-down you started to panic.

This wasn’t new – with horrifying realization, you _recognized_ this sensation. Ordinarily it wouldn’t have been a bother but you hadn’t brought this upon yourself, no, this was someone else’s doing. But why? Why? If anything, Hendrick should have been a target (not like you knew who could possibly be out for his head, but Merlin insisted that that wasn’t outside the realm of possibility), not you. Unless some faceless enemy was determined to take out his bodyguards first. And if there was one way to do it without getting publicity, poisoning was the way to do it.

Your legs went out underneath you and you grabbed the metal fence beside you, trying to keep yourself right. With trained habit you stuck your fingers into your mouth but your stomach had turned and set itself unnaturally. Your insides felt out of alignment and slowly you felt your vision going black. _Poison,_ you wanted to tell your partner. _I’ve been poisoned._ But your tongue felt heavy in your mouth and your throat was tight, so tight, each breath feeling like you were trying to suck air through a tiny straw. And whenever you got enough air you only had it in you to cough, and when you did so again you saw blood on your hands.

Eggsy and Hendrick had stopped, the latter stomping his feet and demanding with tears in his eyes that he wanted to keep going, the former squatting beside you and thumping you on the back, asking you what the fuck was happening to you. Your body knew it instinctively, your brain registering it, wanting to say the truth: _I’m dying._ This wasn’t ordinary poison, no, not something you could pick up easily on some criminal market. 

_Kingsman._ This was one of the Kingsman poisons. Not the one activated through a pen, not an instant death one either; this was one you recognized. _Angelica._ The Americans named all of theirs, but you weren’t certain which was which for the cousins. Letitia limited motor movements, Edith was essentially a roofie, Grace had been the vomiting-inducing one you’d accidentally wielded against Kinsey – but Angelica caused sickness, constriction of breathing. Eventual heart failure, as you recalled, but you’d never gotten to a high enough dosage to be immune. Angelica had been one of the hardest to acquire due to the rarity of ingredients involved, reserved for only special missions, and not even Kinsey nor your brother would have been able to procure it. But a British Kingsman agent just might.

_Don’t die,_ you told yourself, like it mattered. _Not here. Not in front of Eggsy. Not in front of Hendrick._ Not in public, anyway; there would be a crowd once they saw the blood. _Don’t die._ Kingsman poison. Someone from the agency was trying to kill you. Not your branch – no possible way that it could have come over with you, with you having packed everything yourself – but perhaps from the cousins, for whatever reason. Or maybe there were terrorists who had found it, or stolen it, or whatever, and since you’d eaten alone in a public place with employees you trusted you had no idea how it could have happened. _Don’t die._ You needed to tell someone, anyone, what had happened. Kinsey, maybe, even Washington; you’d take the punishment for the deception if it meant you kept your life. _Don’t die._ Not like your brother, no; he’d never forgive you and two relatives killed in the line of the duty would be a bit embarrassing. _Don’t die;_ because dying in Eggsy’s arms would be doubly embarrassing, right?

Eggsy himself was patting your cheek, the force of it ramping up to slaps as he said something to you that you couldn’t quite make out. You could only hear a faint ringing but above the din you thought you might have made out Hendrick’s whining cries as he, disturbed, burst into tears. The world seemed to hang in a single, still moment, with nothing existing but the three of you there. It didn’t feel real; it felt like you might not die but the day would reset, you would have go through it all again, no, there was no way you might actually cease to be.

And at once it seemed like you didn’t: in a moment of extreme clarity you felt a rush of life in your veins, a burst of last-ditch energy, and your hearing and vision cleared up immediately. Your heavy limbs still felt numb and lifeless but all at once you really did feel much better. That humiliated you… Was all the scene for naught, then? You looked to Eggsy but had trouble focusing your gaze, your eyes glassing over as everything seemed blurry. Not that it mattered; you just needed to tell him that everything was all right, and finally you were able to take a proper breath. You were ready to use that breath to tell him that yes, everything was fine, you were fine, but nothing came out. And then your heart stopped.


	12. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you meet a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's always tough for me to portray dead siblings because i have siblings and you can't get so sentimental about them because irl siblings are full of memes and assholishness
> 
> at least mine are  
>  _we're connected_

_**Manner #11** – When you … ? … introduce yourself first … ! … and then ask if … speak with the person … ? ! …_

You landed – or at least you thought you landed – heavily on your side. The wind was knocked out of you and everything felt cold, so _cold,_ until you looked up and realized that you were lying in the snow. And not just a patch of it; despite the fact that it was summer when you fell it was winter wherever you were, the entire world a paradise of untouched white. Where were you? You’d been in London, but now it seemed that you were near a mountain, or at least somewhere with ski slopes and toboggan hills that you remembered from some vague childhood outing. And wherever it was, it made you feel at once bemused and strangely relieved.

From somewhere near your head you heard footsteps crunching in the snow: the heavy footsteps of a man, and a big one at that, the boots large and the steps careful but sure. Someone was above you and as usual your first reaction was to go in for the kill, to make up for your weakened state, but you found yourself without a weapon and utterly disoriented in wherever the _fuck_ you were.

“Whooos ‘ere?” you mumbled into the snow. Suddenly it didn’t seem quite so cold to you; you felt nothing at all. For some reason one of Kinsey’s obnoxious manners came into your head: _Always introduce yourself first. It makes you look less suspicious._ “I’m Lincoln,” you slurred groggily, confused, talking more to yourself than anything. “No… Harrison. Wait, no… Lincoln. Harrison. _Both._ ”

“Yeah, I know. Did you hit your head or something? That looked pretty painful,” announced the voice of the man behind you, clear and strong and full of humor. “That’s what you get for trying to go down by yourself, without me holding you.”

You knew his voice in an instant; for years you’d tried to replicate it in your head, to recreate unsaid words, just to hear him speak again. With snow on your elbows and knees you stood and whipped around to face that familiar figure, to see your brother alive and whole and well again, full of vigor with the usual lopsided grin on his face and a good-natured look in his eyes. You were in his arms in an instant, holding him tight, not questioning why he was there in the first place. All that mattered was that he was there, _there_ with you.

“Nice to see you too, punk. Looking good,” he said appreciatively, patting your back with the usual strong force. “But that was a bad fall. How do you feel?”

“Not too great,” you mumbled. Every detail about the poisoning had gone from your mind, not that you could be blamed; how could you think about a funeral when you were at an amusement park? So you genuinely thought that it was some invisible fall off of a sled when you gave a painful cough, your ribs feeling like they’d been cracked. In truth, Eggsy’s frantic and ceaseless attempts at CPR had almost cracked your ribs but thankfully you hadn’t vomited all over him or anything.

“Well – I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.” He was dressed in winter clothing, in contrast to the suit you still wore, and he had your childhood sled slung over his shoulder when he turned to walk away from you, but not too far, to make sure you were following along. “Nothing hurts here. Come on; I’ll make sure you don’t fall off next time. But we have to climb first.”

Without question you plodded after him, your movements heavy and clumsy in the deep snow. It seemed that he was right about nothing hurting there: he was fully restored, a far cry from when you’d last seen him, nearly unrecognizable in his casket. He was in the prime time of his youth, exactly how you remembered him and how you’d always wanted to. Though he was ten years your senior (and you realized that you would catch up to him in age before too long) he was imbued with the sort of tireless energy and spirit that only the immortal eager are blessed with and even when you huffed and puffed from exertion he didn’t so much as break a sweat.

A streak of hope went through your heart: was this a prophecy, then? Did this dream _mean_ something? Your brother was here, whole, young, and definitely not KIA. So with a rush of insane optimism you burst, “Are you not dead?”

He looked back at you and laughed, just laughed, the sound of when he was making fun of you without you even knowing what was going on. “Oh; I’m dead. And you must be too, if you’re here.”

“Oh.” You frowned, stumped. Again you failed to remember your poisoning and wondered what had happened to you. From the pine trees you could hear the wind whistling, and for a moment it sounded like a scream. (In the real world Hendrick did scream out of fright, seeing what he presumed to be your corpse, and Eggsy had wrangled him from running away by grabbing the child harness that Gitta had managed to surreptitiously fashion into his clothing) When you listened closer, continuing your upward hike, it started to sound like a voice, a voice that might have been familiar: _…with me. Stay … me. Don’t…_ You weren’t sure if you wanted that; you wanted so desperately to be alone with your brother, to talk to him again without anything interrupting you, even if it meant a trip back to the conscious world. With concern you asked, “Are we the only ones here?”

“I should say so. And for good reason. Bad publicity for the late great Agent Kennedy to be seen frolicking in the snow with his baby sister, eh?”

You scoffed. “Not like you care about the titles. You _hated_ the Kennedys.”

“And I still do. You know all the shit they did? Well; just look at Kinsey and Lincoln. If we’re going to look at his actions from a historical perspective…”

You thwacked him on the back, which as usual was little more than a flyswatter to his strong and muscled torso. It had been so tough to physically bully him after he’d joined Kingsman! “You should have just stuck to studying history.”

He gave you his best big brother look, a feigned injured look coupled with some sense of masculine, unapologetic pride. “It was a different time, you know. In 2001 you were still just a kid. If you were a grown-up like me, you would have enlisted too.”

“Oh, really? Would I have?”

He turned away from you, frowning, thoughtful. “I’m not sure. About anything, really.”

“If I _had_ enlisted, maybe I could have ended up working with you.” A brother and sister team, a cool, collected duo; maybe then Kinsey wouldn’t have bullied you.

When her name went through your mind it seemed to go through his, too. “You wouldn’t have to join the army to do that. Kinsey wanted to be a ballet dancer, remember? Or maybe you wouldn’t know. When she first went into training she was tiny as hell. You wouldn’t believe the transformation…”

“Yeah, she transformed into the most perfect person ever, apparently.”

“Not so; she made mistakes when I knew her. I had to mentor her, after all.”

You made a face, recalling the first big mission you’d been entrusted with, how badly it had ended for everyone involved. “What, mistakes? You mean she might have occasionally tripped over her field of dead bodies or something? I’m just glad you weren’t around for my Ripley thing.”

“Oh, no… Definitely saw that. But like I said; everyone makes mistakes…” He trailed off, whistling brightly into the clear winter air. “Speaking of friends, how’s your pal? Eggy?”

You reddened. “He’s fine. And it’s _Eggsy._ ”

“Eggsy? The fuck? I thought his name was Gary. How do you get _Eggsy_ from _Gary?_ ”

You shot him a sly smile. “How do you get _Dick_ from _Richard?_ ”

“By asking him nicely.” He paused, then boxed you against the ear. “That’s so fucking dumb. _You’re_ fucking dumb.”

“Says the guy who sent me antiquated memes to make me think you were an old fogey loser when you were really schmoozing in Tunisia…”

“Those memes were heartfelt, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Thinking about his professional career with Kingsman couldn’t happen without thinking of how he had met his permanent retirement. After what Kinsey had told you, you couldn’t stop obsessing over how your brother would feel to learn that you were working with the ones who had killed him through inaction. Unable to look up you said, “Hey…”

“Geez, my thighs are burning,” he mumbled, his cheeks puffing out. “Huh? What is it?”

“Are…” And then you blurted out, quickly, like it mattered what a ghost thought, “Are you mad at me?”

He gave you a quizzical look. Before it seemed he could read your mind – perhaps because right now he was a fragment of it – but that didn’t connect with him. “ _Mad_ at you? About what?”

“About – working with Kingsman. The British cousins, I mean.” 

You recalled that your brother was the reason you were in Kingsman in the first place – with you finding yourself without any support, he had guaranteed you a job and therefore security – and remembered that you had sworn to kick his ass if you ever met him in the afterlife. Now you weren’t sure if you could back up that promise, especially when _you_ felt like the guilty one.

He shrugged. “Why would I care about the cousins? Didn’t really know any in the first place.”

“Because of what _ha_ ppened.” Suddenly it occurred to you that you could get the full story on exactly how he died, what with the files on his death being too restricted even for you, his only living family member. “Do you remember how you died?”

But at once he seemed to be far away from you, the voice on the edge of a dream, too hazy and unfocused to touch. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the snow and looked out into the horizon, and when you passed the last tree, you looked, too; for miles and miles stretched only an endless expanse of glittering snow.

“Beautiful weather,” he mused, glancing upwards at the clear blue sky. “Not a cloud to be found, eh? We don’t get many days like these. We should be thankful.”

Though there was no snow, there was still a biting breeze that rushed past your ears, getting louder as you ascended the hill. You could have sworn that once more you heard voices in it. _How … she?_ and then another: _Condition … stable, and … considered, we…_

It bemused you and you forgot entirely about what you had been asking him. The overwhelming sensation was of how much you had _missed_ him, of how much you had needed him in his absence. It would have been easier to have been stronger had you anyone else, but you didn’t; they say that it’s a tragedy for parents to die before their children and therefore it was a small, good thing that neither of yours had to pry open his casket, as you had done. But it meant that he had was not only your brother and protector and playmate but he had also been forced to become your mother, and a little while later, your father as well. To lose him in the end was like losing everyone you had cared about all over again. You had been too numb through the burial to get too overwhelmed but the blow had first struck after you had found your last job before Kingsman had pressed you into service. It had been a good position, good enough pay to support yourself – and you had sat at the kitchen chair, realizing that you had no one to call to tell about it.

Though the mountain seemed to go on forever but when you turned your head back to it you found yourself in front of a cozy log cabin, tucked away against the tree line. The sort of place you had always wanted to have a vacation in, warming up in front of the fire with a blanket around you. Family over for supper, perhaps...

“So I can stay with you here?” you asked, maybe a little too eagerly.

Your brother ruffled your hair, making you growl with frustration as you did your best to fix it again. Dropping the sled onto the ground and stretching, he said, “You really want to? That’s too young, don’t you think?”

“Well, for all the shit I talk – you weren’t old, either.” You tried to snatch up the sled but he kicked it away from you in the same gamey way that he might have knocked a book out of your hands and kept it out of your reach.

With a huff you strode over to the cabin and peeked inside of the window. Inside you could see a couch facing a roaring fireplace, a rug that might have sat in your family home, a bookshelf, a stove, and a kitchen table. But when you looked at the plates you realized that only three had been set.

“You still have a lot left to do,” your brother told you, suddenly sounding not quite like your brother but more like some ancient and mystical force – but you would rather have the former than any of the latter. “I mean, you were such a quitter that you relied on me for everything – ”

“Asshole – ”

“ – but you’re not ready yet. I _mean_ that. Why… You could be a married woman by the end of this and you’d just be giving up now, before you see it.” He paused. “Or maybe a stripper. I'm not a psychic.”

And who would you marry? It was a bit hard to get around the elephant in the room that was you being an agent in an enigmatic and dangerous organization. You turned around to tell him that but suddenly he was gone, the sled abandoned, and you tripped forward in the snow to call his name in pure terror.

“Don’t freak out or anything,” he said, his voice at once far away, yet another disembodied voice coming from the mountains. “I think that’s all the time we get today.”

“But I don’t _want_ to go!” You protested, scrambling forward uselessly, trying to find him in the lonely wilderness you were subjected to. “I want – I _miss_ you!”

His voice seemed to be getting farther away, but you couldn’t be sure. The slope you had been climbing up now seemed to be topsy-turvy, the sky underneath your feet and the mountain close to your head. “You want me to say something like _I’m here with you always?_ That’d be a new level of lame… Even for you…”

“Don’t _leave,_ ” you said, but it was useless; the world was fading around you, a white light swallowing you up. Was this eternity, then? The light at the end of the tunnel? You succumbed to it, unable to fight much of anything, just trying to get everything straightened out. 

So was your brother’s mountain purgatory or heaven? If it was the latter then where were you being pulled? To hell, most likely; did you deserve it? You hadn’t done half as much as Kinsey had! But she had the staunch belief that there was no afterlife, that there was nothingness after we died, that death was a brick wall; but you wondered if, for _once_ , you could prove her wrong even if you had to wait fifty years to do it. Because there were very _real_ sensations around you, light against your eyelids and something soft and warm against your back, and you could hear something so faintly… At first it sounded like a tinny beep but gradually other sounds came into play, some soft conversation far away and the squeak of metal against your back. Then there was a voice, the voice of a man. Was this God? You weren’t sure that’s how you imagined how He would sound. Maybe someone else’s god? Maybe it wouldn’t mind you misnaming it, because obviously you’d done something right by reaching some sort of Valhalla.

Except there seemed to be no god before you, even though you could have sworn that you mumbled a question, a request to be introduced to this new enlightened being. Because it was a human’s touch against your wrist, human warmth on your skin, and pure humanity in the buoyant, almost boyish laughter of breathless relief as he spoke: “I’m here, it’s Eggsy – it’s me, Eggsy.”


	13. OneEye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you meet up with some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you happen to be familiar with how i write on lunaescence, then ....... you know that i cannot keep myself away from trash ocs

_**Manner #7** – Do not comment on other people's physical characteristics unless, of course, it's to compliment them, which is always welcome._

 

The whiplash of going from a snowy mountain somewhere to seeing the ceiling of a hospital room was jarring, to say the least. Your first reaction was one of confusion, then panic, the same sort of jolt you’d get after the first few days of coming home from a long sleepaway camp. Except you weren’t sure _where_ you’d gone and where you’d come back from, and _the hereafter_ was probably a bit more abstract than Camp Gemini.

“What…” The word came out too hoarse, the sort of sound effect you’d hear from a ghoul in a horror movie, and you tried to swallow. When your throat finally worked properly you managed to get out, “What happened?” You could barely see and for a horrible moment you wondered if you’d lost your vision forever; Agent Cleveland worked just fine without sight but you weren’t sure if you could manage half as well as she could. “Besides the… poison.”

So Eggsy told you: after he had nearly broken you with CPR (and had resorted to simply pounding your chest in a distinctly non-professional manner), and after he had wrangled Hendrick while trying to quell the panicked tears that threatened to rise both from him and the child (successfully with the former, not so with the latter), he had forced himself to call Kingsman and not the usual emergency number. Within what seemed like moments, a completely typical ambulance had rolled up and agents had pulled the three of you inside. Afterwards the procedure was much the same, albeit probably more clandestine: immediate medical attention, stomach-pumping, tests, the like. They had been shocked to find that you had managed to survive, even if only by a thread. You were apparently some sort of medical miracle, which was the first time you’d been called a miracle in your life, so that was sort of good news.

“Do you remember anything?” he pressed, much too hard and too soon for your current confused and barely-coherent state. “Did anyone offer you anything suspicious? Did you think you were being followed, into a restaurant or something?”

“No,” you grumbled, crinkling your brow at him. (At least your irritation seemed to make your vision clear up more) What sort of shit-tier spy did he make you out to be? Okay; maybe you _were_ one, but _he_ didn’t know that, hopefully. “I’m not a toddler, Eggsy… I don’t take candy from strangers…” Oh, God; a latent throb of panic crossed your heart. Now that you were in the hospital, they’d have definitely made you. Definitely. _Who the fuck is this?_ the faceless figure in your nightmares asked, looking over charts and graphs on a clipboard. _So-and-so isn’t Agent Lincoln, she’s Agent Harrison. Agent Fuckup, Agent Dipshit, Agent –_

“We’ll figure it out,” he swore to you, and did little to even out your heart monitor when he reached forward to clasp your hand. “Merlin had just been telling me about some big conspiracy, where Hendrick is from. An assassination, and some installation of a fucking military dictatorship. Can you fucking believe it? In this day and age.”

“Oh, Jesus.” You swallowed a sob, not out of sadness but out of sheer frustration at the reminder of the little bastard’s name. “Where’s Hendrick, anyway? Is he all right?”

“Totally fine. Bet that doesn’t make you happier to hear, though. Thought you might rise from the dead, just to tell him to shut up when he kept bawling.”

“Well… I guess I’m a little touched that he cared enough to cry.” Though he was probably crying that he missed out on petting a giant panda. You wondered how long you’d been out; just long enough to climb up the hill, it seemed. “Where is he? It’s ruining his vacation, with me in the hospital like this…”

Eggsy hesitated at that, and though his eyes flickered to something over your shoulder, you couldn’t get the energy to turn your head around. “Listen; don’t worry about that. It’s all settled. Just work on getting better, you hear?”

Your heart suddenly swelled with fondness; Eggsy, your partner, your _friend…_ You had thought you’d land in London to be surrounded by people who hated you, but no, he was here, with you… Had he sat by your side? You hoped you hadn’t said anything embarrassing when you were unconscious. Or was that only in the movies? But – ! Oh! It was all too good, too special! You must have been tripping hard on whatever meds they gave you because you reached out with fondness, perhaps to try to touch his face, but your vision was still unfocused and you missed and gingerly touched his chest. Oh, well. If you weren’t going to get a sentimental moment, you might as well blindly cop a feel. You retracted your hand, narrowing your eyes as you tried to aim properly this time –

And then, an eager voice from behind you, from the position of someone squatting down beside your bed at eye-level: “Are you going to kiss him?!”

The energy to turn your head, the one that had eluded you for so long, was finally found as you snapped around to face this stranger right in the eye. It was a woman’s voice and your first panicky thought was _Kinsey_ , but when you found yourself looking into just one eye, you realized that it was not foe but an actual, real-life friend.

“Mathilde!” you cried, forgetting all about the mushy scene she would have witnessed. Mathilde, Mathilde Lace-Beauchamp, your one and only Kingsman friend back in America. You had gone into training together – you, inheriting a position, and she an actual real-life qualified person – and though she had excelled where you meandered, you had both forged a friendship out of commiseration; you’d both been bullied and had stuck together because of it. “Why the fuck are _you_ here? Eggsy, you didn’t _tell_ me…”

“I didn’t know either; they only got here the other day…” He scoffed. “Wish you lot would have told me you were coming. I nearly _shot_ you when you snuck in; didn’t recognize you…”

“Because I’m wearing this big, evil eyepatch?” Mathilde tapped hers; it couldn’t be all that intimidating, since it was in the shape of a heart. “Got the old ocular blown out in Afghanistan. Looked different on my file, eh? Thought the old picture there looked better cosmetically, so I begged them to keep it that way.” But even though she was down to one eye, that eye-fuck look she’d given him through the computer screen was still very much effective and he had to look away.

“Ah, shut up. You know you look good…” You made a face, totally jealous; even the loss of an eye hadn’t diminished her looks at all. Mathilde, after all, was a complete favorite of the American higher-ups, especially on honey pot missions. Almost everyone wanted to sleep with her, and for the job she was willing to sleep with anyone. For the seduction “mission” during your training, she’d managed to seduce the target even though it wasn’t even the real goal.

“Well; I know I do. I was just hoping he wouldn’t say anything bad. Don’t you know, Galahad…? You shouldn’t comment on another’s physical characteristics, unless it’s a compliment… That’s welcome, of course.”

Mathilde was your friend, true, but that didn’t stop you from getting a twinge – not of jealousy this time, but of pure panic at the mere idea of standing up so outmatched against such a worshiped woman. “Ah, leave it alone, you…” Then sudden clarity hit you, and you realized that another American Kingsman agent was really there beside you, in the flash. You tried to sit up, failed, and decided to ask instead: “What the hell are you _doing_ here?”

“Ah, well…” She pressed her thin index fingers together, looking a bit evasive. “You were out for a longer time than you realize, you know? Almost a week…”

“A _week?_ ” It wasn’t _really_ that long but that finally compelled you to jolt upwards as you looked to Eggsy. “I’m ruining their vacation! Why didn’t you wake me up?!”

“You almost _died!_ ” he retorted, shoving you back down to a comfier position. “Well – you _did._ For a while, there.”

“And they tell me that you had enough poison in you to kill you, twice,” Mathilde noticed, prodding your stomach. “What happened?”

You tried to remember, and though it seemed your brain had blocked most of it out, you could remember one detail. Furrowing your brow and closing your eye, you turned your head into your pillow and said, “Angelica.”

“Angelica?” Eggsy demanded, on the wrong side of the cultural divide. “Who the fuck’s Angelica?”

“It’s not a person,” Mathilde filled in quickly. “We name our poisons – after our first ladies. We have a few more than you all do… She’s quite the professional in dealing with them. A master, I’d say.”

“Oh, yeah?” He sounded a little proud and when you cracked open an eyelid you saw that he was sitting up a little straighter, looking a bit pleased to be working with someone with such esoteric knowledge.

_Oh, God;_ did he still think you were Lincoln? You revisited that horror with a shudder. You wished that you had some secret code to tell Mathilde to not blow your completely foolish cover, or at the very least you wished that you could speak one of her seven other languages, but you figured you’d just fuck it up and tell her that you shoved a pineapple up your orifice, or something.

“It was a Kingsman poison,” you affirmed, trying to move on before such an embarrassment occurred. “But I have no idea how it got here.” You nearly mentioned Kinsey and remembered that to Eggsy, she didn’t even exist. “I certainly didn’t bring it with me.”

“The Brits have their own Angelica,” Mathilde said, pensive. “You might have called it a boring name, though. We had some missing, but it was with some… other poisons – ” (At this she folded her arms, giving you a questioning glance with her good eye) “ – so we can’t be sure who might have taken it. We have a register, but the records are conveniently down at the moment. But I doubted you poisoned yourself, so we have to assume that it came from here.”

That sent Eggsy on edge; perhaps he felt guilty enough that he hadn’t noticed your plight earlier, and the insinuation that he might have poisoned you was too much to bear. “That’s totally fucking ridiculous. Who would have done it?”

“Not you,” you guessed, hopeful, unless he had somehow fumbled is opportunities to smother you with a pillow while he was by your side. “But that stuff doesn’t go old. Someone could have stolen it earlier, hoarded it away, waited to try to get to Hendrick. But – it’s not like I taste-test his food. _Eggsy_ does that. If anything, he’d be the one poisoned.”

“I don’t know,” Mathilde admitted, frowning. “But it’s being investigated. You just need to focus on getting stronger.”

“Yeah, yeah. So I can babysit Hendrick some more.” The thought of the poor little asshole made you concerned. “So, what? They called you in as soon as they reported _man down?_ ” Poor Kinsey! Totally in the dark! “And you and Eggsy have been watching Hendrick this whole time?”

It was hard to do a cat-smile in real life, but Mathilde’s was pretty close. With her best diplomatic tone she said, “Galahad was a very good partner for you. Wouldn’t leave your side at all, right?”

Eggsy was nearly impossible to embarrass, especially when he was totally resolute about something; this _something_ seemed to be the complete and utter affirmation that you two were together on this. “Of course not,” he said, lifting his head and narrowing his eyes. “Partners, until the end. Not that the mission was fucked up or anything.”

“Oh, right. We’d just gotten in the day before, actually – ”

“ _We?_ ” you narrowed your eyes; that was more suspicious than the news that the US had sent in more Kingsman without letting you know. “Who’s _we?_ ”

Mathilde lost some of her vigor and she squirmed a bit. “Well, the thing is…”

The door to your room swung in, and in walked your _least_ -favorite fellow agent: Agent Roosevelt, better known to you as Danson Hayes, letting you know with one look that he was neither concerned about you nor relieved that you had finally regained consciousness. “Adams,” he said with some irritation, “I thought we were going to go over plans for dinner? The royal family will be _waiting._

“Good to see you too, Hayes,” you snapped, getting too riled for the confines of your hospital bed. “What brought you to England? You _hate_ the English.”

“Washington apparently had some concerns, but before we could link up with you, you sort of dropped dead.” He was one of the few that could meet you with equal venom, even if you were in a more pathetic position, and at least you could respect him for that. “Everything’s sorted now. Just stop sitting around and get better so I can get the fuck out of this rainy-ass country.”

You ignored him, glancing down to a book in his hands. “What’ve you got there?”

He jutted his chin out and showed it to you. “A history of the royalty of Great Britain. Unlike some of us in this room, I like to be as informed as possible about world leaders and the like. Mathilde told me you got drunk and slept through that wedding and you didn’t even know who _Kate_ was. Maybe you should take it, brush up a bit? They get idiots to pass World Politics all the time; even for you it shouldn't be _too_ hard...”

Mathilde was more diplomatic but Eggsy cared little for such trivialities, especially when it concerned acid being spewed from the mouth of some upper-class-looking twit in the direction of his partner. He slowly stood from his seat and went nearly chest-to-chest with Hayes; though Eggsy himself was not extraordinarily tall, Hayes was the same height, and as such the stand-off was slightly less impressive than it could have been – more adorable than anything. But he didn’t even need to say anything and Hayes, not quite as threatening in the face of a man as opposed to some injured woman, faltered and shoved the book against his chest.

“I’m just _saying,_ ” he said, sputtering and wheeling his way backwards towards the door. “Come on, Adams; we really do have to go, okay? Glad you’re better, hope you feel better _soon…_ ”

Mathilde gave you the look of _yeah, I’ll scissor-kick him in a minute_ and departed, though not, of course, without blowing you a kiss first. You watched them go, feeling more amazed than anything. Your name hadn’t been dropped in conversation once and thus you never needed to explain to anyone what had actually happened during your brief stay in England.

“He really does hate it here,” you told Eggsy, grimacing as you propped yourself up on your elbows. “Well; he’s from California. Anything gloomy and cool, he doesn’t really care for…”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t care for my fist shoved up his arse, but it’ll be there in a minute if he keeps talking.”

Your eyes sparked. “I’m not sure; but it’d be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it?”

He scoffed, looking away. Looking away! What had you done?! It was almost impossible to embarrass a man like Eggsy Unwin, he who so readily had a repertoire of verbal weaponry to fire back at you. Or would he be ashamed of doing such a thing with a downed partner? Oh, God! You’d already had a moment of weakness with collapsing like that. Maybe you’d lost literally all sense of cool in front of him! Now you were some sensitive and weak thing who needed protecting! As if!

It was an effort to try to sit up more but you managed it despite Eggsy’s protests for you to build up your strength. “I _am_ building up my strength,” you retorted. “The sooner I get better, the sooner Adams and Roosevelt can leave. Which means the less time I have to spend thinking about how better it would be if I could punch him in the face.” And the sooner you could see Kinsey, too. Doubtlessly at least one of the Americans had contacted her, or at least tried to search for her when they came up with only you, but she would want to talk to you herself. It would take all of your mental capacities and gymnastics to assure her that it wasn’t actually Eggsy who poisoned you, unless he was an incredibly inept assassin.

…except it did wear you out to move just for a moment, and you figured that that was enough physical exertion for a day. Well… Maybe you should try some mental exercises. Hayes’s insinuation that you were an idiot, no matter how close to reality he may or may not have been, still pricked at you. 

“Here; maybe it _is_ a good idea if I brush up…” You eased the book from him and looked through the last few pages. A review of the most recent royal family members; you recognized the Queen, obviously; Princess Di (even if you couldn’t remember what she was famous for in the first place) and former, less-sexy husband Charles; Kate (whose wedding you actually were hungover throughout) and balding William… you realized with a jolt that both had died during their attempts to gleefully survive casual genocide. But not Prince Harry, who you’d understood to be the attractive one despite the whole Nazi incident, and even as an uninterested American, you were intrigued.

“You know, Eggsy – something got over to me, back when I was in America… They said that one of the agents who took down Valentine got to sleep with a princess. I guess that had to be you, right?” You felt a sudden, inexplicable, and definitely obnoxious twist of jealousy in your stomach at that. But you had to be the cool partner! And to be cool… you could just emulate whatever he did! “I guess that’d be a way to get me back on my feet, eh? Hook me up with your prince… American girls like him a lot too, you know. And apparently he doesn’t have his head up his ass about letting his own people die…”

He jerked in his seat and you wondered if you’d said something offensive. You weren’t really sure how the English felt about their monarchy and perhaps you’d hit a sore spot. “I mean – there might be someone else to choose from. But your royal family is so _old_ … Isn’t there some hip, young royal family of rich boys that I can sift through? You lucked out a lot, you know…!”

When you looked up at him over the book you found him to be looking away, tense, jaw clenched as he seemed to be determined to ignore you. You squirmed, wondering if you were coming off as too desperate. Attempting to dial up the charm, you went on. “It’s not like I don’t find _you_ , uh – attractive – or anything, Eggsy, but we’re talking royalty! That’s a whole other league! C’mon; it’s the least you can do for your old pal, right? Partners! Doesn’t that mean we should be each other’s wingman?”

“I guess,” he grumbled, folding his arms. Was he – _pouting?_ It seemed he was! As if you hadn’t become overly familiar with that sort of pose after so long with Hendrick!

_I see!_ You were too selfish there, holed up in a hospital bed! Doubtlessly he’d gotten some flak for choosing to stand by his partner while letting the Americans run off with the royal family. He’d been loyal to you, and you’d barely thought of him! Yet the synapses weren’t firing correctly – either because of the drugs they’d doped you up on or because of the sheer absurdity of what the more fantastical side of you was suggesting – and you jumped to a conclusion in the wrong direction.

“Well, you were a good partner, too… I guess I could try to pull some strings and find you someone American to go to bed with. But I guess we don’t really have royalty, right?” You tapped a finger against your chin, thoughtful. “What about some celebrity? They’re pseudo-royalty…”

“Ah!” Eggsy stood so suddenly that he nearly knocked the chair behind him clean over. A sudden vehemence had coursed through him, a new and inexplicable energy, and you had no idea where it was headed. “Ah, for fuck’s sake!”

He moved forward so suddenly that for an insane moment you were sure that he might actually hit you; but he only took your chin, tilted your face towards him. For a moment it seemed like he was turning you to get a better angle to kiss you, which seemed absurd – until he actually leaned forward, and – ! 

You were close to paralyzed when he pulled away, staring into thin air. Now… Were you _positive_ that that had just happened? That it wasn’t all just some sort of elaborate fantasy concocted by a brain that was bored with your actual life despite the fact that you were an international super spy?

“Well,” he said, swallowing sharply, “don’t lie around here for the whole rest of the summer, yeah? When are you going to be up?”

“As soon as possible,” you said, and you were sure of that _now,_ growing even more sure as he departed and you were left alone. Immediately you started to stretch, to move and challenge yourself a bit. You felt weak, sure, but you’d have to get moving as soon as possible! Sit-ups! Push-ups! Jogging! …Maybe jogging could wait, but definitely those other things; it was completely unacceptable, anyway, that you could barely get your thighs apart without feeling tired. Wouldn’t do at all!

You hadn’t spent the better part of your Kingsman career downing poisons for nothing; you’d get past this. If anything, you were the spy most qualified for recovering after a sudden poisoning. Within a couple of days you’d be back on your feet, and you could start properly preparing for what lay ahead of you. Because you couldn’t ignore the fact that the poison meant to kill you had disappeared from the storage at Kingsman and had ended up in your body a coincidental short time after two Americans had appeared in England – including the smarmy Danson Hayes who hadn’t seemed the least perturbed by your condition. Could you accuse him of international sabotage? Perhaps not, but you could be more sure of at least _something_ by now.

Oh, yes; you were going to be ready for it. You’d have to be. The explosions, the gunfight, the assassination attempts, the coup plot – you wouldn’t sit idly by while Mathilde got to have an actually cool time while you had spent your time taking care of a whiny prat. No! You were going to be ready to help save the world, or at least a portion of it; and you wanted to be equally ready for something else that had seemed even more extraordinary and impossible but had now come to light as being within reason. Namely, the sex.


	14. Goldf[xxx]ed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you enjoy yourself at the opera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love operas. make sure to pay attention at them. >:(

_**Manner #16** — Even if a play or an assembly is boring, sit through it quietly and pretend that you are interested. The performers and presenters are doing their best._

Naturally, you hoped that the sudden appearance of so many American Kingsman agents would lead to a get-together of some sort – a picnic, perhaps, on everyone’s downtime – but sure enough, nobody wanted to hang out with you. Except for Mathilde, of course, but she was on main guard duty at the royal family’s safe house and you’d hate to be pinned with the death of the prat if someone broke in and strangled him to death while you and her were hitting the strip clubs or something. But even if you wouldn’t be raining incorrect bills on some male stripper, you at least got to leave the dreary hospital bed. Resilience, it seemed, had worked out in your favor, and you were up and about much sooner than the doctors had expected. And it was mostly because you remembered you had another associate who might have been completely in the dark and who could have very well been threatening your partner with immolation.

You thought that Kinsey might be happy to see you alive, but when you came to her you realized that she had already heard what had happened: “Even if I hadn’t hacked into whatever I could to see what was going on,” she told you when you surprised her with a visit, “it’s not like this apartment is a secret to the other Americans. They came by right after you got poisoned, to tell me what had happened. I told them to keep the change in our identities secret, so you can thank me for that. But frankly I was shocked they were here in the first place.”

Was she? That was the most startling part to you. From so long of working with her, you had just generally assumed that if you didn’t know something, she did, up to and including the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow. And what’s more, you noticed that she was looking much better, and had color in her cheeks that wasn’t an unbecoming shade of green.

“So, Kinsey…” You cleared your throat, wondering how to approach this rightly. “Are you going to go into the field, then? If you revealed yourself now, you can always act like you came in with Adams and Roosevelt. That’s plausible, right? Then we’ve stacked the deck with Americans, which is probably what you wanted…”

“Oh, no!” She rounded on you, getting a bit excited (which terrified you a bit) as she did a little dance from foot to foot. “Don’t you see? This is a blessing in disguise, Harrison. Everything that’s happened. I’ve gotten a look at everything. Poison disappears from the British Kingsman unit just days before _you_ get your fill of some. Not random. There’s something going on here.”

You felt trapped; you were sure that immediately defending Eggsy would make it all too clear that you wanted to fuck him, and you wouldn’t be able to deny it if she accused you. “Are you sure? I mean – Kingsman is a pretty competent outfit. I’m not sure how competent they would be if they made sure to record them losing the same poison that they tried to assassinate me with.”

“That’s because they would never think of accusing themselves. We’re on their ground, remember, and we don’t exactly have Internal Affairs. They can be stupid as they like about these things…”

You knew that you could only go so far with testing Kinsey, but begrudgingly you knew that it was only fair to defend your partner from accusations of stupidity when he’d already done the same for you. “But Mathilde tells me that poison went missing from back home, too. Are you going to accuse – I don’t know, Danson of poisoning me too?”

True, you had added that last bit because it had been on your mind, though Danson too would be an idiot for being such an asshole to you and then trying to kill you. Unless he was just so dumb that it never occurred him to try to pretend to be on your side? Wait – now you were just upsetting yourself with conspiracies.

Kinsey narrowed her eyes, not mincing any menace when she took a step towards you. Now, that was a familiar look you recognized, and perhaps didn’t miss: the look she got right before she tried to educate you. “Can you not think straight or something? It’s a genuine question, Harrison, because I don’t want you to be mentally deficient now that you’re back in the field. We’re in their domain now; it’s not paranoid to assume that they could be behind this.”

“But what do they get out of it?” you protested. “Even if there’s someone who wants a dictatorship in Scandinavia or whatever, killing me is hardly going to bring it about.”

“Oh, no – that’s for later. Now they just want to make us look weak. Scare us a bit.” Kinsey relieved you from that icy look of hers and started to pace. Whenever she was deep in thought her tongue would poke out a bit between her teeth and you would have thought it cute in a childish way had such a thing also usually meant that she was about to call you an idiot. “They’d make you look like an idiot…” (There it was!) “…or at least very weak. Discredit us, professionally. Then it’ll seem obvious to Arthur that we’re not prepared for a reunion yet, and once we’re shipped out, the prince is all theirs to assassinate.”

_Is this real life?_ It all seemed to go over your head, simple as it was. Or was it because your mind was wandering over to sex every ten minutes or so? _God, I should never be kissed, ever. I’m like a sad old hag._ “But it didn’t work, did it? I’m up and about again. Obviously they can’t be too smart or they would have figured that they picked the wrong person to poison.”

“That’s _exactly_ right, Harrison. Good on you.” And such a rare compliment would almost have been enough to fully pacify you had her not words next been, “And that’s why I’m going undercover. Investigating this whole matter in greater detail. Don’t worry – you’ll just see less of me. More time for you to watch the Brits. It’s good it played out this way, what with me getting sick. I’m a ghost, Harrison…”

Well – whatever made her happy, and got her out of your hair. If anything, she’d just be chasing ghosts and dead ends while you got to take credit for doing the actual work. So you actually thought that it was the lesser of two evils to say, “Ah; awesome, Kinsey… You do you. Good idea. Stay on top of things.”

It really was your job to say that Kinsey had anything _but_ good ideas. At least you were like her personal realism when she was surrounded by everyone who would pay money to turn her bowel movement into a national exhibit. So perhaps this was the wrong course of action, but what did you care? At best she might actually crack some difficult problem, and at worst she’d be disavowed by the Americans for ruining the peacekeeping mission. And you would get all the credit for protecting the prince, you’d be promoted and sent on worthwhile missions, and at the end of the day you could sit back with Eggsy on a beach and watch the pigs fly over the sunset.

Ah; and then there was Eggsy! Wasn’t it about time that you came clean with him and tell him who you really, actually were? He _had_ kissed you, which was one way that a human being could prove to you that he at least liked you a _little_ bit. Granted, such a confession could plunge him straight into the hating-your-guts territory, but wasn’t the whole point of being a grown-up (much less an international spy) to own up to your decisions, and just hope for the best? But there never seemed to be a right time for the owning-up to take place, since Hendrick was insatiable when it came to an itinerary, and it didn’t seem right to tell him that you’d been lying to him for the entire time while you were sitting with Hendrick squished between you on the London Eye. 

And then came the opera.

“The opera!” you burst when Gitta told you about Hendrick’s next wish. “What little kid wants to go to the opera?”

“He likes the music,” she told you, though the set of her mouth told her that she didn’t particularly look forward to the experience, either. “And he likes dressing up and watching the singers perform. Even if he doesn’t particularly know what’s going on.”

You recalled a class trip to see _Tosca_ ; it wasn’t bad, but even with the gore that was on television all the time nowadays, you weren’t really certain that you’d want your own child witnessing the typical tragic love triangles that ended with death. “Yeah, but that’s the thing… Isn’t the subject matter usually a little too heavy for someone his age?”

Gitta raised her brows. “I’d say it’s relatively tame, considering what happened with the Richmond Valentine debacle.” You cringed, always needed to remind yourself that the royal parents both died from legendary headaches, and she went on. “My siblings and I were just lucky that our parents had been wise enough to send us to a private resort when all of that happened. Hendrick is so tiny, you know – they didn’t want him being cut open to get one of those… implants. But you must have suffered worse; where were you during that time period?”

Thankfully away from the rest of the world, but under circumstances that would sound humiliating no matter what. “Oh… On my own, thankfully. But that’s the past…”

“Yes; the past. But please, don’t fret over tomorrow evening. Hendrick behaves himself very well at the opera.”

That shocked you the most. The kid could barely sit still through his dinner without squirming and yelling and banging his silverware on the table as he demanded a stuffed animal companion for his meal. How as he going to sit through an opera, which despite a brief break so your ass didn’t get sore, was still going to be nearing three hours?

But you trusted Gitta; more importantly, you trusted Mathilde and Adams, who would also be there, to restrain you from whatever corporal punishment you may feel tempted to give to Hendrick in the case of bad behavior amongst incredibly rich and cultured theatre patrons. You just _didn’t_ trust yourself to not revert to your bad habits in the face of admitting to Eggsy that you were a complete fraud and poison yourself to get out of dealing with the aftermath of a potential bad reaction.

You went without a bespoke suit on the night of the opera, as did Mathilde. It would be a bit modern to show up at a theater with one on, and as a result you felt both sexy and totally exposed with a dress on. Oh, well. If you died from a stray bullet, at least it’d be properly tragic for an opera, and you’d look good while doing so.

“Mathilde’s dress is bulletproof. Could you even guess?” you whispered to Eggsy as you tailed the royal family, the two other Americans at the front as you guided them to their choice box seats. “I mean – I’d take one of those floor-length even gowns any day. But I wouldn’t look half as good, and apparently they couldn’t fit it in their budget to make me one.”

“Oh, really?” Not that he needed an excuse to watch the way your own dress – with a hemline that seemed afraid to go too far down your thighs – hugged and flattered the poetic sloping curves of the female form. “So what happens if you get shot at?”

“Well, I probably die, like anybody else. That’s why Adams and Roosevelt are at the front. So if someone storms in from behind us, do me a favor and heroically leap in front of the royal family…” You sighed, looking down. “I really must be cannon fodder! They even made Mathilde’s _gloves_ bulletproof.”

“That cheap, eh?” Without even looking he reached down and snapped the top of one of your thigh-highs. “You sure these can’t take a bullet?”

For once you were actual made to redden and you anxiously swatted his hand away. “Ah, don’t! I already feel like a cheap hooker with this dress on. I would worry that it might ride up to my uterus or something in case I needed to start a chase – ” (Which wasn’t going to happen in the first place until you got a bicycle or something, you weren’t _paid_ enough for that) “ – except nothing’s going to fucking happen in here, I swear. The security here’s intense.”

And it was; for a harrowing moment you thought that your _own_ gun was going to get confiscated, what with the five metal detectors and security checks you had to go through just to get in. Well – you wouldn’t complain. It made your job a hell of a lot easier. If anything, it just wasn’t worth the pain to try to assassinate the prince at the Opera House.

You realized that you’d be trapped in a darkened box for hours, sitting next to Eggsy, and the thought terrified you. As if you hadn’t been feeling guilty enough about the whole false identity thing! For all the shit you’d given Harrison, _you_ would be the one squirming. That was it! You had to tell Eggsy! You _had_ to!

“Galahad,” you said your voice a bit strained as you approached the box, “I really need to talk to you about something…”

“What, now?” He looked with some distaste at the seat where he’d have to plant his ass until the intermission. “Well; wouldn’t want to keep that in for so long, eh?”

Not wanting the royal family to hear and panic, you drew him a prudent distance away and realized that despite all your worrying and fretting you’d never actually figured out a way to just come out and say it. _Well, fuck._ You were supposed to be modeling yourself off of Kinsey, and Kinsey would have definitely prepared an entire speech beforehand, complete with practiced nonverbal cues.

So you figured you would just do what you normally did and make it up as you go along. “Eggsy,” you hissed through gritted teeth, not missing the fact that it probably sounded like you were about to tell him that you were pregnant, “I need you to not judge me for what I’m about to tell you.”

“ _Judge_ you?” He was all confusion, which made it worse, since it seemed to you that he’d never guessed that something might not be _bona fide_ about you and this would come as a great shock to him. “Fuck’s the matter?”

“I’m…” You took a deep breath. It felt a lot like the one you’d taken before your heart stopped, except this time you didn’t have the convenience of dying in his arms to get away from a potentially uncomfortable situation. “I’m not Lincoln. Okay? I’m not _actually_ Lincoln.” On second thought that sounded really bad, like you were some double agent in disguise, so you hurried on. “I mean, uh, I’m still an agent. Not some assassin in disguise. I’m _Harrison._ Lincoln is a superior of mine. Not me, though.” You finished the way you’d finished many a presentation in school. “So… yeah.”

You figured that at the very least he might spit on you. You’d at least prepared your reflexes for such an occasion. At worst he might hit you, at which point a bunch of white knight patrons would fly to your aid anyway, so that didn’t seem so bad. But what you hadn’t expected was for him to give you another bemused look and say, “Yeah, I know.”

“You…” It wasn’t connecting that well in your head. “You _know?_ What do you mean, you _know?_ ” That almost offended you. How the fuck did he figure out with you around to tell him? Could you not even keep _one_ secret?! Shit-tier spy, indeed!

“I mean, I _know_.” Carefully (but not in too much of a hurry) he extricated himself from the wall you’d pinned him against. “I was looking through the files of American agents before the whole… poisoning bit happened. They had _your_ file updated well enough.”

So was _that_ why he had gone all cold to you without any warning? Thank God it wasn’t that you’d accidentally offended his person. “But…” You felt cheated. All this stress building up about the confession, and for nothing! “Aren’t you upset? Really pissed off at me? I _faked_ everything!”

“Fuck _yes_ I was pissed off at you! But believe it or not, I did forgive you for one or two things while you were, I don’t know, a dead fuckin’ fish in my arms.”

“Oh.” Well, thank God for near-death experiences! You technically hadn’t even needed to apologize! But you’d done it anyway, and your karma was probably better than ever! Still, you folded your arms, almost feeling ready to pout despite everything generally going in your favor. “Okay, but if you’re still resentful or anything, I don’t mind at all. I deserve it, I get it. But it wasn’t as a joke or anything. The real Lincoln got sick and we didn’t want you thinking that you were getting some Z-grade spy, like this whole mission didn’t matter to us.”

_Now_ was the reaction you’d expected, in a much different place than you’d expected. He really did look offended, maybe even a bit wounded by that. “What do you mean? You thought I wouldn’t like you, the way you are?”

Was this the big romantic monologue about liking someone exactly the way they were? Perhaps not the right context that you’d expect, but your heart was warmed nonetheless. “Well, _no._ Why do you think I was trying to impress you all those times? I’m not legendary or anything.”

He folded his arms to match you. “You don’t believe that doesn’t matter to me or something? You know where _I_ came from. Or did you think I was just some arsehole, just caring about titles and reputation? Do I have to prove to you that I actually _like_ you?”

Wait, no! He was good at this! It wasn’t supposed to turn back around towards you! “I didn’t know _who_ you were; I’d just met you. And I would have done it sooner had I not introduced myself wrong to your _boss._ Now…” You really did have another big monologue broiling around in your head but all of a sudden it became apparent that the show was not going to wait around for you to finish it. “Now, let’s get through this fucking opera, okay?”

“Right.” But he still seemed a bit uneasy; did he not think that you believed him about him genuinely liking you? Well, you did! No need for affirmation there! All _you_ wanted was to have your panties pulled down as he pushed you up against the bathroom sink but maybe that wasn’t quite in the spirit of the opera.

You took your seats, and you were settling in when Hendrick turned to you with a solemn look on his face, his hair slicked back and shiny with gel. With the most serious voice you’d ever heard come from a grade schooler’s mouth he told you, “You’d better behave during the opera or I’ll move you to the top of the list. It’s a very solemn place.”

_You little shit! I’m going to toss you over the fucking box if you’re not careful!_ “Completely understood, your royalness. Just be on the lookout for those set pieces. This movie I just saw – some woman was hiding in them, using them as a cover to shoot a political figure much like yourself…”

“Really?” One of the twins asked. “That sounds like a spy film. Was it James Bond?”

“No; Ethan Hunt… A pure American, one who needed only half the height and dialogue of Bond to solve the same problems.”

You settled in and prepared for a long night. You couldn’t help but think of opportunity costs – other things you could be doing this performance. Eating, mostly. (You really should have eaten more before you left, but you weren’t sure if you still fit into the dress…!) Maybe eating, crying, and masturbating… perhaps not in that order, but it was a start. Phone sex, maybe; that didn’t seem as lonely. And then cap off the night with some wine and Pokémon on an emulator. At least, the last two was what your brother always prescribed for a lonely evening.

Well. You could at least _try_ to be cultured. You recalled your brother taking you to some dinky local play when babysitting you. Though you had tried your best to smuggle your Game Boy into the performance, it was scarcely an inch out of your bag when he gave you one of the most severe big brother looks in history and told you something you hadn’t forgotten: _Even if it’s boring, just sit through it and pretend to be interested. The performers are just trying your best, you know. You would hate for someone to laugh at you or not pay attention when you’re trying your best, right?_ So you had sat through the entire thing with determination and only after it was over did he admit to you that it really was a pretty lousy play.

Around you, your co-workers seemed to at least be following suit. It was only fifteen minutes or so into it but Danson had tears welling up in his eyes already, and Mathilde looked like another member of royalty, lips pursed as she gazed down with only her eyes like some unapproachable foreign princess. The royal family themselves were behaving themselves beautifully even at the onset, much to your surprise. And even Eggsy was doing a heroic job of pretending to be intrigued.

It wasn’t a bad opera, to be sure; you were certain there would be dozens of people within the nearest kilometer who would kill for such close seats to _Carmen._ But why? Hardly anyone in it was likeable and you were just worrying that Hendrick would stand up in the end and loudly demand that the ending be redone so that Carmen ends up alive and happy with both of her love interests. But even he was acting like a proper adult, sitting up straight, hands folded neatly in his lap, and gazing down at the stage with rapture. Did he even know what they were saying? Perhaps it didn’t matter. For once _he_ was being the role model of the group.

You felt a hand squeeze your knee and you jumped, but it was just Eggsy, giving you a grin. “Keeping calm?” he murmured to you. “Carrying on?”

“M-Mostly.” You looked down at your watch and with some surprise you realized that you’d been sitting there for much longer than you would have anticipated. “It’s not bad at all.”

“No,” he agreed, and you wished that that low posh tone of his didn’t make you squirm as much as it did. “You’re behaving yourself very well.”

“ _Hey!_ Between the two of us I’d say it’s _you_ who should be praised here…”

And though you expected him to move his hand away he didn’t; he just kept it there like a prize for good behavior. You weren’t exactly keen on moving it for him and really hoped that some John Wilkes Booth didn’t burst in to find you with your pants almost literally down. Wouldn’t that be something? Another Lincoln dying at the theater… Such thoughts distracted you away from anything sexy until he moved his hand, not away from you but – closer _towards_ you until he was lightly snapping the top of your thigh-highs against your leg again.

“Don’t,” you growled, a little throb going through your heart, though you weren’t sure if _stop_ was what you meant. Damn it – couldn’t the professional side of you win over, just once?

The fucking asshole had the gall to just _wink_ at you and you felt another throb from someplace much lower. You tried to distract yourself from the feeling of his fingertips against you, staring into the set, wondering if Ethan Hunt was fighting some assassin up high near the catwalk with the beautiful Isla Faust staring through her sights to see you a few inches away from getting a handjob in the theater. Such a distraction lasted only for a few minutes, though, before his hand slipped higher and brushed up against a locale far more scandalous than the tops of your stockings.

You must have jumped a good foot in the air, because he had to bite back a chuckle. Anxiously you looked to the royal family, but you hadn’t seen so much as a side profile from anyone since the opera started. It really was a good production, to be sure, and everyone looked to it with rapt attention. Even Eggsy, who was using his perfect sleight-of-hand to massage a hand against your panties without as much as a glance towards you.

_You bastard,_ you thought, wanting to wail it out had you not been deterred by the thought of Hendrick angrily reprimanding you. _You’re evil. You’re an evil fucking bastard._

Logically, one would pair these thoughts with wrenching his hand away with indignation, so why were you just letting it happen? And why were you getting such a treat during such a boring night, anyway? Was this really a reward for sitting so prettily? Well, perhaps – wait, maybe – was this… He was… He was _proving to you that he liked you!_ In about the last Disney-friendly way ever! And in the sanctity of an _opera house!_

Eggsy made a move to tease you, beginning to draw his hand away, but your hand shot out like a snake and gripped his wrist to pull it back to place. Again he smirked, not even giving you the benefit of looking at you as he resumed, slipping in past your panties to push his fingers inside of you. He curled them so expertly within you that you couldn’t help but wonder: _Has he done this before?_ In the back of some seedy movie theater with a high school dropout in a short skirt? Within the realm of reason. Not that you minded, or minded anything all in that frame of time, really. Nothing seemed to exist outside of the box – perhaps nothing existed outside of the two seats that you and Eggsy occupied.

What followed could only be described in operatic terms, which I will of course spare you from; all that mattered within a world of espionage intrigue and looming military coups and royal families was the pressure he exerted on you at exactly the right place in exactly the right moment. Did he mean to time it so that the frantic jolt of your legs, the sharp intake of your breath, the slap of your hand over your mouth, coincided with Carmen hitting a particularly impressive note? Perhaps he did, because he seemed to know the exact moment to finally slide his gaze over to your face and memorize what he saw even as you did your best to conceal it.

And then as soon it had happened, it seemed to be over. He slid his hand out from between the apex of your thighs and prudently wiped it with a handkerchief. Like a gentleman; _manners maketh man._ Except perhaps he was still straddling the like between gentleman and terror, because it seemed just _too_ well timed that the intermission began so soon after it ended.

You could barely stand as Hendrick shot past you to go to the bathroom, Hayes hot on his heels, and the rest of the family stood to stretch their legs, along with Mathilde. Before she left the box to escort the twins away she looked to you with a brimming smile. “Well?” she asked, her voice taut with emotion. “How was it, for you? I think you’re actually blushing a bit.”

“I-I…” You swallowed sharply, hoping that your trembling legs weren’t evident in the dim light. You felt out of breath despite no real physical exertion and you hoped it hadn’t been obvious that you’d so rarely felt the touch of a man. “It was f-fantastic.”

Eggsy had stood to lean over the side of the box, watching the crowds below, and you heard him suppress some laughter at that. You shot him a helpless glare and he looked back at you, knowing exactly what he’d done, where he’d done it, and who he’d done it around – knowing full well that anything could have gone wrong, that some crazed gunman could have popped in when one of his shooting hands was occupied, knowing that he’d ruined the sanctity of the opera house – and he actually had the nerve to smile at you.


	15. Live and Let Die (A Little Death)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which multiple heartpounding situations occur.

_**Manner #19** – As you walk through a door, look to see if you can hold it open for someone else._

For the record: you’d only seriously had a gun pointed at you once in your life. You’d been walking home alone from the movies after your date had unwisely tried to grab your wrist and stick your hand down his pants while you’d been trying to enjoy yourself with the actually enthralling action movie he’d taken you to. You’d responded the only way you knew how: gripping your hand around whatever you could find and trying to crush it. Your date had not responded well to that and he actually had the gall to be the one to punch _you_ (after extricating your vicelike grip, nails digging in, from his now withered genitals) but you stayed late after he stormed off; if you’d had to put up with a black eye and sexual abuse then you could at least enjoy the movie that he’d paid for.

Not that anything looked up as you walked home. It was the limbo between your brother dying and Kingsman forcibly recruiting you, so you were more broke and sad than you were badass. When you found yourself accosted with a gun in your face, some stranger demanding your bag, you handed it over with some disappointment, knowing that there was only about nine dollars and an expired credit card in it. And you knew that you’d hit rock-bottom when even a mugger looked at you with disgust after he’d rifled through it, disbelief in his voice as he asked _is this it?_ before you earned yourself a second black eye.

It was such a painful evening that you’d done your best to repress it all for as long as you could, despite the fact that your twin black eyes had scared away any children in your vicinity for some time afterwards. So there wouldn’t be any reason for such a nadir in your life to be on your mind again – until the end of a certain day, that is.

It had been a week since the opera and you had been behaving like the worst orgasm recipient in the history of handjobs. You had stopped sleeping over with Eggsy and had instead taken up residence in the safe house that Kinsey had once occupied; it still smelled a bit like sickness no matter how much you’d tried to Febreze the shit out of it (you’d learned that Hayes and Mathilde had been put up in a bigger, fancier, cozier safe house and you wondered if your being the unfavorite had cancelled out Kinsey’s fame, forcing you both into the mediocre apartment). It was still better, you supposed, than being thrust into a sea of sexual tension, which was how it felt whenever you were within twenty feet of Eggsy.

You were being childish. Of course you were being childish. You realized this. But you weren’t exactly well-equipped to dealing with someone wanking you off in a darkened theater and then being completely okay with going around the next day like everything was fine and the two of you were business partners. Maybe you were just a wholesome American gal, but you had assumed that platonic handjobs were a different man’s sport. Either way you were having issues just looking him in the eye on every outing you’d partnered on since then and though you knew that you likely looked like a total amateur when it came to anything even vaguely sexual – and to pass the Kingsman tests you needed to seduce someone, after all, making it all look even more embarrassing had he not already known that you’d more or less failed that one.

“I’ll put it off until tomorrow,” you decided as you pulled on your pants (though perhaps not your big girl pants) for the day out with Hendrick and his sisters. It was the least adult thing to do about it, which is why you were on that path. The whole business might have been an existential question that one would ask an older sibling or Google, but the latter was giving up on you and the former, though potentially useful (hadn’t he had something going with Kinsey? Anything?) he was shirking his responsibilities of being your spiritual mentor or dream guide. “We can sort out the whole sexual business tomorrow, right? The weekend. Nice, long think about it. Mathilde and Danson are here. One of them can tagteam and be his partner instead if things go wrong…” Could they redo these bespoke suits? You were sure you’d gained weight since you arrived in London. Damn Hendrick and his instant invitation to high-class restaurants… “Jesus, I don’t want to get these pants resized… They hate me enough down at Tailoring…”

Before you left you did as you usually did: looked at an old Post-it note of advice that you’d kept since your brother’s death. You’d asked him for advice and he’d written: _Don’t look down._ Though you were 90% certain that he’d written it ironically, you had never had the heart to throw it away, especially after his death; you’d been desperately searching for some applicable situation when you could take it to heart. Would it ever be relevant to you? Perhaps today, finally.

It was an easy mission: Hendrick wanted to take a ride on the London Eye, and since you’d always wanted to do it yourself, of course he got his wish. Not that you desired to spend an extended period of time with Eggsy in a closed container, so you were relieved when you went separately, Eggsy taking Hendrick (thank God) and Gitta while you stayed with the twins. Not that they were that much of a relief as they turned their heads this way and that in sync, smiling at you eerily, asking you if you’d ever gotten seriously sick before.

“What do you mean, sick?” you asked, caught off-guard.

“Does cancer run in your family?” one of them piped up.

“Uh, no more than usual – ”

“Ninette and I are trying to figure out how long you might live,” Heike put in cheerfully. “It’s a big fascination for us. Hendrick should live forever, but he was born so early. Perhaps he’ll live until he is eighty-four but by then he will have lots and lots of heirs. We think that Gitta will live until she’s ninety-two and the both of us will live until exactly eighty-nine and perhaps we might pass away with equal time apart as we came into the world.”

“Oh God,” you moaned into your wire, “please get me out of here. Tell me Hendrick’s making a scene.”

“He’s behaving admirably,” Eggsy told you, with some mirth that you were stuck in the bad situation yet again.

“Oh, Jesus. No chance of them kicking us off early. Fuck.”

“So stressed,” Ninette observed. “I give you until you’re fifty-four. Then you’ll get a heart attack and die.”

“Wrong; I’m going to die in about five minutes by breaking out and jumping off this thing if you both don’t just sit and enjoy the scenery…”

“What scenery?” Heike sniffed. “I don’t even like heights.”

“Well, here’s some advice; _Don’t look down._ ” There! You’d finally been able to use it! You’d finally made your brother proud, in some way, even though he probably had some deep cryptic meaning behind his words, as he usually did, not that it was helpful to you in any way, shape, or form.

So you were buoyed by that sense of good feeling as you trailed behind the royal family to lunch, with Eggsy leading. Despite the fact that you’d done little in the ways of badassery you felt like you were the best protection that the family could have hoped for. Maybe it was the fact that you’d be the one to be professionally forced to put up with them, but you were actually feeling somewhat of a connection. Or perhaps it was the optimism, knowing that you’d be released from service in less than a month. Not that it took away the pain of knowing that you’d more or less wasted a whole summer acting as a babysitter to a royal family whose oldest member wasn’t much younger than you.

There were two sets of doors to get into the restaurant that Hendrick had chosen, and Eggsy went ahead through the vestibule to open the inner doors for the family. You would have scampered forward to open the first set of doors, but you figured it’d be in bad form to leave Hendrick trailing behind in case someone was trying to snatch him through promises of candy. Except something like that _wouldn’t_ happen, of course; no one seemed to give a shit about his presence in London. Maybe you were right in your assumption that nobody could identify them. But you let them open their own doors by themselves, and maybe that was where you went right.

You were so used to holding the door open for whoever else might be coming through, so as usual you looked over your shoulder to see if there was anyone else coming up behind you. And when you did you found yourself staring at the muzzle of a handgun, one pointed low – much too low – past your elbow, a perfect aim to the back of Hendrick’s head.

Did you have a warning word for these types of situations? You weren’t certain, so you more or less just yelled “ _Gun!_ ” Though you would admit to not being as sexy as Mathilde and not as physically competent as Danson, you still had the reaction time of an Olympic athlete, honed after years of anticipating having pencils and balls of paper thrown at the back of your head in both class and in your Kingsman training. You swung around and hit his wrist so hard to disarm him that his wrist snapped. Despite the screech that wrenched from his throat, the fucker actually did keep a grip on the pistol (was it glued to his hand) and he kicked you in the stomach, sending you to the ground right as the door started to swing close on your body.

Ninette and Heike’s combined squealing was off-pitch and in the frenzy of the whole thing you found yourself wondering why they chose _now_ to be dissonant. You sprang to your feet just to get punched in the face by the remaining good hand of the assassin, who was perhaps now feeling like an idiot for not taking the shot sooner. But you were the face that the human boot stamped on forever and a simple punch was nothing to you, even if from a grown man; you and your brother’s youthful spats were like WWE fighting compared to this. You punched back and the gun went clattering somewhere on the pavement. You hoped that someone would grab it but when you looked up you realized that there was no one around; good to know that Londoners were so helpful that they fled instead of trying to help out a young adult against a terrorist.

Now with at least somewhat of the upper hand, you sprang on the assassin like a wronged high school girl and started beating him with absolutely no thought to keeping him alive for questioning. When the thought did cross your mind you turned to a chokehold instead, twisting the both of you around to find that Eggsy had successfully covered the family and had successfully hailed for backup: within minutes an unmarked car pulled up and bundled all four precious packages inside.

You wondered how you were managing to successfully wield your own fists to dominate this full-grown man. Even with your training there were still obvious physical differences between the two of you and you at least expected more struggle through this chokehold. You glowed with pride; were you really getting that good? You still had a way to go – you’d seen Kinsey take down a man built like The Rock with that acrobatic Black Widow fighting style of hers – but you thought you were doing so well for yourself, especially since the assassin was limp like a child in your arms after the ritual few thrashes and shudders.

Hayes barreled out of a separate car with some girl you’d never met before. Bright, you grinned at the two of them and tightened your hold. “Hey, how’s it going? What a way to meet.”

The girl looked a bit put-off at the sight of your captive, but tried to smile. “Lancelot. And you?”

“Lincoln.” Well; who were you lying to anymore? “Yeah, Lincoln.” Best to play close to the vest. “Nice to meet you.”

“Um… Likewise.”

“Holy shit, Lincoln,” Hayes barked, turning away and rubbing his temples. “Just leave him be.”

“What? He’s an _assassin._ ” You saw Eggsy approach you and smiled widely. “Look, Galahad! I caught him! We’ve got ‘im! Bring him in for questioning! We Americans know something about torture, right, Hayes?”

Eggsy looked pointedly from the assailant back to you, and he patted your cheek affably. “He’s been dead for five minutes now, mate.”

With surprise you turned the man around – with your chokehold you hadn’t been facing him – to realize that he’d swallowed cyanide some time ago and you were currently embracing a bulging-eyed, blue-faced corpse that was foaming at the mouth. “Oh, Jesus.” You dropped him like a sack of potatoes, kicking him away. “God! I really thought I’d gotten him…!”

“Nothing you could do,” Eggsy assured you as the other two agents split up to case the rest of the perimeter and another car appeared to bundle the corpse away. “That’s classic, eh? Fake tooth with a cyanide pill? Are you resistant to that, too?”

You brushed yourself off, hoping that you wouldn’t be haunted by any foreign national ghosts. “Cyanide? Don’t be ridiculous. No such thing as an immunity to it. Of course, it’s not as sneaky as the Kingsman poisons…” 

Eggsy scooped up the handgun and observed it, empting out its magazine. “This is what he had, yeah?”

“Yep. Actually held on when I broke his wrist, too.” You were so chock-full of adrenaline that you were ready to do a backflip, swim with sharks, juggle knives.

“And he was pointing it at you?”

“Well, at Hendrick. But he probably was, sometime.”

He frowned and turned to get into the driverless company car that had remained for the two of you, and since you still weren’t golden about driving on the wrong side of the road you let him drive. Only when you were a minimum safe distance away did he say, “Pretty good reaction time back there, for staring down some fuck with a gun.”

“Oh; that’s nothing. Just very good training. Obviously not good enough to avoid getting punched in the face, though. Pretty good, eh?”

He looked at you a bit darkly. Speaking with history you didn’t yet understand he said, “I never want to see anything pointed at your fucking head.”

“…oh.” You wondered why you felt like such an asshole even though, for once, you hadn’t done anything wrong. Was that supposed to be some sort of love confession? Or had he actually seen someone he liked get shot in the head? Both seemed equally plausible so you counted on neither. “But it wasn’t, and nothing happened. We should be in good moods. Except for our potential torture victim dying.”

“Yes; apart from that, it all went quite well…”

“But we’ll have to be much more careful from now on – with the royal family and Hendrick, I mean. Whoever was trying to kill him wouldn’t waste energy if they could get him killed at a short range… And now that they know it won’t be so easy, they’re going to up the ante.”

“You’re right… We’ll just have to trust Merlin to get it sorted, yeah?”

You fell silent, looking out the window. You honestly didn’t have any idea where you were going – shouldn’t you be driving to headquarters? Or were you so hopeless with directions around London that you had no idea where you were? – and let him take care of it. Though you did ask: “Where are we going?”

“Just taking a detour.”

You cast him a sidelong glance. As your own brimming adrenaline waned into more manageable levels you wondered if he wasn’t feeling a similar sort of urgency in his bloodstream. Was he? The male mind was nothing short of enigma, no matter what sneering trash rags intent on improving your sex life wanted to tell you. The lazy part of you desperately wanted you to ignore it completely, to write it off as something you were completely ignorant towards and therefore there was no point spending any sort of energy on it; and yet another part of you, one that had been forced to lie low for some time, reminded you that there was a real chance you could have died during your encounter and that time was running out on your glad-to-be-alive sex. And a third, more rational part of you told you that you were actually being an idiot, or at least a completely oblivious human being, because everything Eggsy had done to you since you rose from the dead and even before then was to prove to you that he did like and accept you, and you had been doing a shitty job at reciprocating any of it despite the very real (though no less embarrassing) feelings you had for him. And after all, there had just been an assassination attempt on Hendrick’s life; as soon as you returned to headquarters it would be time to put boots to asses and there might very well be no better time, or time at all, to start reciprocating.

“Eggsy…” You weren’t sure where an appropriate space to lay a hand on him was so you picked the most prudent choice: his knee. _Wait._ You thought of the opera and realized that perhaps it wasn’t so innocent after all. But he was looking at you and you struggled on. “Eggsy, I just wanted to apologize.”

He must have sensed that eye contact would be critical for this conversation and he did his best to maintain that while keeping his eyes on the road. Not that he much needed to; there seemed to be nobody else around. “For what?”

There was no good way to say it, so you just said it, for once not caring how lamely you said it: “For being the worst orgasm recipient ever.”

He nearly drove off the road at that one. “The fuck?”

“I was, ehm…” You cleared your throat, hoping it added some delicacy to the whole affair. “I was very ungrateful. I had a nice night at the opera. I hope it didn’t seem like I was… avoiding you or anything.” (Because you were!) “I don’t know if you were trying to tell me that you liked me or not, but if you were, then I just wanted you to know that I like you a lot, too.”

Holy fuck. A man who was going to kill you and your client died in your arms in less time than it took for your food to digest and there you were, getting all squirmy at what couldn’t in any way, shape, or form be constituted as a confession of love. It was a confession of _liking,_ if anything, so why did you feel so hot and ashamed and yet surprisingly relieved when you’d finished?

“Holy fuck,” he cursed, and took a deep breath. “Well, fuck. I can’t… _do_ this while I’m driving. But shit just went down and it’d be irresponsible to pull over, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, as he started to pull over.

You hadn’t seen a car pass you either way yet. For once you felt like it was just you and him, alone. When you were properly pulled over he turned to you and looked you in the eye; at once you felt naked and wondered if you that was prophetic to something that would happen in a few moments.

“You said you were the worst orgasm recipient ever,” he quoted. You realized that you recognized the look he was giving you from various inappropriate videos you’d watched in your life of being a lonely person: the look that meant you were going to be kissed, nearly devoured, and his free hand was going to your ass or your chest – whichever he preferred. “You want another? To see if you can’t make up for it?”

It took more than a single moment for it to sink in, and when it did you nearly burst into a cold sweat. Were you really the only ones around? Suddenly it felt like there were an infinite number of homeless lurking around behind bushes and trees, waiting to watch you get off. “B-But… This is a company car!”

“What, you think it'll drive off? Nah… It happened to me before and I figured out quick how to get around that. And the windows tint. Completely opaque. I’ve checked.”

With whom? Oh – it hardly mattered. “Well, the seats do go all the way forward…” But you were getting ahead of yourself! They were expecting you back at headquarters, and without the smell of sex on you. Entertaining this absurd notion of a quickie in the backseat! Was this something Kinsey would say, in this situation? Or were you just holding your superior up as a shield to what you actually wanted, the adrenaline monster inside of you clearly needing to be shut up with a little death that for once wouldn’t actually hurt you? 

Oh – ah – well, they probably understood that you wouldn’t be jetting off to headquarters anyway, not if they assumed you were trying to lose a tail. And didn’t you want him to consummate whatever he was promising with that look he gave you? “Here? Now?”

“Here,” he agreed, shutting the engine off. “Now.”


	16. Quantum of Suck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you make a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roxy is a perfect being. so is eggsy. i must be there, to balance out perfection with trashiness

_**Manner #20** — If you come across a parent, a teacher, or a neighbor working on something, ask if you can help. If they say "yes," do so -- you may learn something new._

For once in your life, things worked out in your favor; not only were you able to indulge yourself with getting furiously humped in the back of a company car, your clothes hanging off you scandalously, heating up the darkened windows as you clutched at the soon-to-be-ruined leather seats, but you actually made it back to headquarters on time. And that was even including the fifteen minute grace period you’d given yourselves to slump against each other, chests rising and falling and hearts hammering against one another’s, slowly moving to piece yourselves back together and roll down the windows for some badly-needed oxygen.

When you arrived back at headquarters after double-checking your outfit twice you received the unrelated lecture you’d been anticipating: _this cannot happen again_ and _security doubled at all times_ and _future of an entire country at risk._ You wanted to be so discreet about the fact that you were wearing ruined panties that you stared Merlin straight in his cold, seen-it-all eyes. Did he know? He had to know, didn’t he? Could he tell that you’d had to wipe handprints off of the car windows? Did your hair still have that sex-battered quality about it? Or could he, celibate as he seemed, just smell it on you? But even if he did he at least didn’t let on, or ask you if you were sure to use proper protection…

Of course, your post-coital mood was making you more than agreeable about whatever he was saying. Doubled security? You’d be available 24/7. Tighter guard of Hendrick? You’d attach yourself to his hip. How could he need a nightlight when you’d be standing there at the foot of his bed with a flamethrower like some psychopathic attack dog? Maybe that’s why Merlin didn’t call you out on anything; you were being so agreeable and genial that he couldn’t see it fit to humiliate you.

Agents were posted at the safe house of the royal family, but you weren’t among their ranks. Perhaps you wouldn’t look like a comforting presence with a black eye, but you didn’t find it necessary to complain; you were quite willing to let generic white dudes take over for you for a day or so while you nursed both your injury and the usual sense of shame that comes with fucking a coworker.

So if you were a bit ashamed to see Eggsy, at least for a few hours or so (how hard it was, to stand even a few feet away from him at the meeting, to see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed and to remember the way his breath felt against your neck, hot and feral – oh, you’d needed to snap out of a reverie at least once or twice), who else could you see? Kinsey was on her own private mission, and Hayes wasn’t exactly your best friend. _Mathilde?_ God, you had such a short list of friends! Well, at least you had a couple, and you went down to the shooting range to meet up with at least one of those.

You found Mathilde perfectly hitting the kill-zones on a silhouette that seemed far too small to be truly intimidating. You looked to her, shocked as she put three bullets through its heart in rapid succession. “The fuck, Mat? What toddler is going to be threatening the royal family?”

“It’s a midget,” she told you helpfully above the din of whoever was shooting a few stalls down. “Wait! Don’t correct me; a dwarf.”

“Yeah, because _that_ was the most baffling part of this conversation.”

“It would sound good if I told you I wanted to be prepared for whoever might threaten Hendrick, right? Well… I wanted to show off,” she admitted as she drew the target forward. When she unclipped it and rolled it you realized that she really was going to keep it; then again you shouldn’t have been surprised, considering she’d once showed you a small collection of unique targets she’d kept, the most stunning being a three-headed chimera of Stalin, Hitler, and Mao. “Did you come down here to practice? Really?”

In truth, a shooting range in a Kingsman facility seemed a bit redundant; you needed a certain weapons score to pass, anyway, and that’s why you’d needed an extra three weeks until you dragged your feet to pass it. (Eggsy had mentioned to you once that he’d needed to snipe a balloon at a certain number of yards in the dark to pass his own test; again you felt the envy of his outfit’s limited number of positions)

“Why not?” You shrugged. “I thought I might make some new friends, maybe meet a babe or two.”

“So Eggsy’s not a satisfying lover?”

You fumbled the shells you were holding, shocked. In a low hiss ill-suited to the noise of a shooting range you spat, “How do you know about that?”

Mathilde laughed, her tongue poking out a little between her teeth. “I’m the honey pot, remember? You don’t think I’ve seen this before? _Been in_ this before?”

“Whatever,” you mumbled, reddening. You tried to keep your mind off of the shameless rutting and thrusting you’d indulged yourself in just hours prior; would it be possible to get a silhouette in the shape of Hendrick so you could try some nonfatal wounds just to make yourself feel better? (Not that would be such a thing as a nonfatal wound… Just one shot from a Dillinger would probably make him go flying back as if in a movie)

“There are no babes here, anyway; I’ve checked,” Mathilde told you helpfully. “Well – except Roxy down there, but she’s a bit out of either of our classes…”

You looked down to see that, indeed, the other sharpshooter at the range was Roxalot; at first it seemed to you that she was missing her target, but after a moment you realized that she was so accurate that she was just punching a slightly bigger hole in the same mark. _Show-offs, all of them,_ you realized, sighing. Is this who Eggsy hung around? You’d asked him who his friends were and he had mentioned Roxy; why were you the only one around you who wasn’t beautiful and powerful? At least you were halfway cunning. That was a good thing, right?

Mathilde set her own gun down and stretched. “Since you’re here, you can take my lane for now… I’ve got use the little girl’s room.”

You laughed, taking up the position. “And when was the last time you were a little girl?”

“Well; you wouldn’t act like I was used up just because I have more fun on a regular basis?”

You thought of those that Mathilde had gotten to bed for the sake of a mission: supermodels, celebrities, royalty, politicians, hitmen, dictators. Could you ever be so wanted? You had a hard enough time just getting salarymen from the suburbs to give you a second glance, but since you did have sex with a hot foreign agent, you couldn’t beat yourself up too much. “Oh – don’t rub it in.”

You practiced shooting at a regular target, not quite because you needed to but because you felt bored, and you didn’t know Roxy well enough to rationalize coming up behind her to surprise her while she had a loaded firearm in her hands. Unlike Mathilde, you’d chosen a regular generic adult target – you’d been attacked by a regular-sized man, after all – and you were challenging yourself to see if you could shoot a circle around where his heart would be, fantasizing about ripping the still-beating heart from the remains and lording it over those who threatened the family. Would that be good PR for Kingsman? That’d get you a write-up and a psych evaluation from Washington for sure. It was bad enough when you’d gotten caught stoically taking a flamethrower to a dummy of Kim Jong-un; even your psychologist didn’t care that you were technically doing a very American thing, and why shouldn’t you use a weapon that Franklin toiled away at designing for personal use?

Truth be told, you were having so much fun that you hardly noticed that Roxy had finished her practice and was observing you from a distance. Only when you paused to reload did you feel her eyes on you, and you turned to see her skillfully hide a look of disapproval at your seemingly lackluster precision.

“Lancelot!” you exclaimed, pulling your earmuffs down to your shoulders. Would it seem to her that you’d been ignoring her? Gun ranges weren’t exactly a typical place to maintain a sociable presence. “I – didn’t notice you here.”

“Please, _Roxy_ — I insist,” she said, extending her hand to you. The gesture shocked you a bit, for just a moment; it was one thing for you to introduce yourself with your usual enthusiasm but for some strange colleague to genuinely show interest at beginning a good relationship was a pleasant change from the derision that most of your American colleagues showed you.

You grasped her hand with perhaps a bit more excited force than necessary, but at least you might have come off as charming. “First-name basis, then.”

“Oh, no need for introductions there. Eggsy positively goes on about you.” _Sexually?_ you wondered with some eagerness, pondering if you were so impressive that you were worth bragging about to even female friends, but her smile wasn’t devious when she went on and said, “I’m glad you two get on so well. It’s brilliant; even with all that’s happened, they couldn’t have picked better partners.”

The warmth of the praise was so rare to you that you felt your legs turning to jelly for a much more G-rated reason than what had happened earlier. Her words, though, reminded you that you very nearly weren’t about to work together with Eggsy – the privilege was supposed to have gone to Kinsey. Would they have gotten on nearly half as well? Certainly not; even if she didn’t have that deep-seated hatred of the British, you couldn’t possibly see the uptight and dangerously controlling perfectionist Kinsey getting along with Eggsy even with his competence.

“So,” she went on, her gaze sliding over to your shooting skills, “I take it you’re a bit out of practice?” And then quickly, noticing the face you made: “I don’t mean to be rude at all; but to make it into Kingsman, your marksmanship skills would have to be perfect, right?”

Well; she wasn’t wrong. And she would have no idea of your secret fantasies. If she thought that your current work was bad, she would have fainted the time you had been trying to shoot while holding the gun upside down. “Uh, well…” You foresaw yourself ruining this early friendship by saying something snarky in response, but another piece of advice from your brother flashed through your head: _Two easy ways to make friends are to ask for help, or to offer to help. It’s just about knowing which is which._ “Well – my precision has indeed gone down. I see you’re just about flawless… They must teach you something different here in England, illegal firearms be damned.”

Roxy took up the role easily without a hint of the usual Kinsey condescension, offering you valuable insight into gunmanship technique; granted, you knew it already, but reviews were always nice. She looked at you expectantly when she was finished, and as you made to take it to heart you aimed correctly and shot out the heart of the target; with your already-made handiwork you took out a huge chunk with it.

“Excellent,” Roxy exclaimed, as if you were her own pupil. “See? A five-minute brush-up and you were back to top form.”

“Exactly,” you affirmed, feeling giddy embarrassment over this slew of good words thrown your way. Seeing Mathilde return, though, suddenly put you out of balance as you once more felt like the _funny one_ in a three-girl band and you politely put your gun down. “I’ll be back in a moment; I think the little girl’s room needs some checking-out from me, as well…”

You left Roxy with Mathilde, who looked at her English companion with some pride. “She is rather good, isn’t she? Why – we were good friends back in training and I knew she was good even then. Not that her skills would have mattered to me at all. The other recruits… They were completely swept away by this rumor that my dad used to go with the Black Panthers, or something. Can you believe she’s the only one who would ever stick up for me?”

“I would believe it,” Roxy assented, “but I wouldn’t think that marksmanship was her strong suit. Or at least, she wasn’t overly used to it…”

Mathilde, baffled, laughed; now that was something she couldn’t believe. “Now that would be ridiculous. She was very nearly the best. Her brother was a red-blooded patriot – she would tell me that it was a treat for him to take her to the gun range to practice.” Roxy, evidently stunned by this flagrant display of stereotypical American 2nd Amendment enthusiasm, was silent. Oblivious, Mathilde went on, shrugging as she reloaded her own weapon. “Oh, yeah… But she wasn’t really enthusiastic about training. She’d always pretend to be worse so she could drag her feet with the whole thing… I don’t think the thought of being out in the field particularly excited her.”

Had you been there you would have exclaimed _Of course it didn’t!_ before realizing that such a thing probably wouldn’t impress an agent like Roxy much. But you were absent, leaning over a water fountain as you contemplated your next move. (Or at least, you should have been; instead you were marveling how Kingsman water fountains at least gave you a full stream of water. The American counterparts, much like in schools, barely gave you enough to wet your tongue with) You had indulged yourself for much longer than necessary before you straightened and realized that Eggsy had been leaning against the wall next to you, having been watching you for some time.

“Eggsy!” you burst, looking at him in shock – the first time you’d looked him in the eye since you’d exited your car of sin. (In your attempts to seriously subconsciously convince Merlin that nothing had happened, you’d stared straight forward like some kind of robot during the briefing) “I didn’t see you there! How – are you?”

This definitely didn’t seem to be the sort of conversation two people had after having rough sex in the back of the car but your script seemed to have been thrown out the window at that moment. At any rate, despite the fact that the two of you were firm friends, he’d moved from giving you a chaste kiss to handjobs in the theater to sex in a company vehicle within the space of a few weeks and that could throw any good relationship off-kilter; you’d seen enough movies to know that. But it seemed to be normal Eggsy who replied, “Me? I’m brilliant. And you?”

“B-Brilliant,” you parroted, concerned by how quickly you were losing precious vocabulary. Trying to regain it, you went on: “Totally great. Fine. Wonderful. Spectacular…”

“Listen,” he broke in, shifting his weight, “I totally understand if you, after that – you know – ”

It was too vague for you to actually know, but you made a heroic effort; and you panicked. Did he think that you were trying to back out of whatever relationship you had just because he’d put it in? That you had some kind of strange issues revolving around sex?! What! Ridiculous! You had to destroy such a thought immediately! 

“No,” you insisted, panicking. “That’s not it.”

He shook his head. “And of _course_ I won’t force myself on you or anything. We can put this all behind us, if you want, yeah? It’d never happen again.”

“Oh, don’t!” you cried, and in some perverse attempt to convey your thoughts as quickly and clearly as possible, you abandoned the sweet diplomacy of carefully thought-out speech: “I’d fuck you anytime!”

It wasn’t something you could repeat to your children via anecdote; too embarrassing to say among friends; too embarrassing to even say twice in the empty corridor where your voice seemed to carry too far and too loudly and you resisted the urge to slap your hand over your mouth. All seemed to be lost after such a sentence but to your relief the corner of Eggsy’s mouth drew up in a grin and he reached out to you. For a second you weren’t certain just what he would do but he merely took a stray hair from the shoulder of your jacket, letting his fingers linger perhaps a moment too long against the fabric.

“You haven’t been over to the house in a while,” he noted casually. “Daisy misses you, y’know.”

“O-Oh…” Hey – at least he was offering an opening to forget all about that exclamation! “Then I’ll have to come back, won’t I?”

He withdrew his hand, letting the strand of hair float down to the floor. “I think so. Tonight?”

It was such a simple gesture; why was your face burning? “Well… I don’t see why not.”

“Does nine sound good to you?”

“Shouldn’t she be in bed by nine?”

His grin remained, but something in his eyes changed and you instinctively knew what was coming before he even said it. “Oh – she and Mum are in Cardiff. Won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“I…” Before you could reply you heard footsteps coming down from the corridor, and with an inflamed sensation of ignominy you were struck into silence; Merlin passed by the two of you incuriously, though not without noting, with some bemusement, that you were watching him with a look of something approaching near-psychosis. Only when he had disappeared around the corner did you finish, your voice lowered as if your boss was eavesdropping: “I’ll be there at eight.”


	17. Blunderball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you accidentally confess something, or not.

_**Manner #9** — When you have spent time at your friend's house, remember to thank his or her parents for having you over and for the good time you had._

It occurred to you that perhaps it might be best to leave before the following morning; Eggsy’s mother, having two children of her own, could probably guess what two sexually compatible young people might get up to when left to their own devices in an empty house. But you found yourself easily insatiable, continuously eager for another round, and even after it was biologically impossible to indulge yourself in another moaning catfight you were just too exhausted to do more than clean yourself up in the shower and flop back down on the bed.

After opening a window in an attempt to dissipate the smell of fucking Eggsy collapsed onto the mattress and joined you. You had assumed that London had fall temperatures year-round and were surprised to find it a hot night in London; it was too hot for holding so you lay where just your shoulders touched, staring at the ceiling fan spin. And since the two of you were much too burnt out to do much else, you made do with what little energy you had and talked.

“Was this the first chest you’d touched in months or what?” you teased, biting back a yawn of pure contentment. “I swear at one point you nearly contorted yourself to make sure you had all hands on deck.”

He snorted, amused. “It wasn’t the first time with you, mate. Unless you think I gave you hands-free CPR?”

“Well…” You tinted red, remembering that your tits had also been fondled in a completely different and much less sexy context. “That doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it? _I had my hands full while you were near death._ Yes… I think this was a much better situation for that.”

Ever since you had met him you were desperate to impress him, to make him think that you were cool; the latter was more to do with the fact that you were supposed to be someone actually cool but the former was something much different. So many people in your life seemed desperate for a reason to look down on you, a reason to use your station against you, and as such you didn’t want to give them another reason for it, especially since you had more than enough evidence to prove that you deserved to be beaten into the dirt. But at least with him there seemed to be something telling you that not only would he not do such a thing, there was an absolutely zero percent chance that he would, and so the threat was not only negligible, but nonexistent.

So you told him about your time before Kingsman, after your brother had gone; the ten-hour shifts at the back of the restaurant, the burns up and down your arm from accidents near the roaring ovens, the horror on a boyfriend’s face when he raised your hand to kiss it and found your skin of your fingers peeling from the steam of the dish machine. And about your brother, how he’d been everything to you, the way he’d raised you with a selflessness so rare and yet which came to him so easily – the way he’d taken you to miniature camping trips in the backyard so you wouldn’t realize the power had been shut off, the rare bonus he’d used up to buy you the electronic you’d always wanted, the way he’d cut the breakfast budget to nothing by cheerily convincing you that all grown-ups ate only toast for breakfast.

You hesitated when getting to Kingsman but told him about that too, omitting the time your head had literally been down a toilet but about what seemed in some way to be worse: the way their faces fell to a look strained tolerance when you said you’d never set foot in a private school nor on a yacht, the gum they’d spit into your soup as you ate it, the time when Mathilde was away and they stole your clothes before a mission in the woods; resolute, you’d endured cut feet and dirtied skin to march out there completely naked, not even bothering to cross your arms over your chest, startling your classmates into silence and making your instructor so red that he gave you full marks for the exercise without you having done a single thing.

“Now that would have been a sight,” Eggsy admitted, leaning over to the nightstand.

“Well – it wasn’t exactly fun. I won’t even tell you where I got bug bites.” But at least, blessedly, the story had conjured up in his mind images of you as some sort of tempting wood nymph instead of the shamed prideful girl you’d been. “Are those cigarettes? How do you keep a smoking habit with Kingsman?”

“Not a habit; just a ritual, I’d say. You want one?”

Your back hurt a bit from all the arching it’d done earlier and you turned over to your side to get yourself more comfortable. “Don’t smoke in bed.”

He accepted that and crossed over to the window, still naked, taking long drags as he looked out into the night. It was his turn to look mystical, enigmatic; a creature from some distant unreachable province of night, beyond the outer dark. “They sure gave you hell, didn’t they?”

You propped yourself up on one elbow to watch him carefully, trying to discern how that made him feel. In truth it wasn’t worse than what your training had put you through – the week of solitary confinement had nearly killed you – so you supposed you didn’t go through as much hell as you could have with your colleagues. “I’d say just more cruel than evil. The first year, I didn’t room with Mathilde… Ava didn’t finish and I’m glad she didn’t. She made me run and get condoms for her and her boyfriend and then kicked me out of the room.”

“Not that you’d like to stay for that, eh?” He glanced towards his own wastebasket where his own rubbers lay. “Reminds me – I’ll need to take that out. That’d be quite a discovery for Mum…”

When he returned to you, you thought he’d want to sleep. Instead he told you stories as well: the trouble he got himself into before Kingsman, after his father died, the father he barely had enough time to know but who he still looked back upon with such pride and affection; the abuse from the parade of would-be stepfathers, the broken bones he’d gotten from defending his mother and sister from them; the endless arrests; and even in Kingsman he dealt with situations not dissimilar from yours and you felt relieved that at the very least you had someone who had kinship with you on that note.

It was finally cool enough to fall asleep and you did so leaning against him while he was still talking (about the time he saved the entire world from mass genocide but you supposed you could hear that just about any time) and when you slept you slept dreamlessly. You didn’t wake up again until light was streaming through and you smelled breakfast cooking.

You wondered if Eggsy was the one making it – you weren’t sure of his cooking skills, actually – and you guessed that it had to be, considering he was gone and you’d made up for it by appropriating his half of the bed. Only halfway into finding something of his to wear did you hear Daisy babbling about something and you recalled that the rest of his family was indeed back home. And unless you went out the window and smashed open on the ground below like a pumpkin, you had to pass by at least one of them to leave.

_Fuck_ was the only thing that ran through your mind as you did your best to find your old clothes to wear. You held up your blouse to find that three of the buttons were missing, and you recalled that he had tried to do what they did in movies and had ripped it open while it was buttoned up all the way; you hadn’t minded at the time but now you wished you’d at least thought ahead. With deep-seated morning-after shame you found a shirt of his to wear and pulled on your pants before heading downstairs.

“Hey, you,” Michelle greeted cheerfully when she turned to see you. “Good morning to you; I wasn’t sure when you might wake up.”

“I’m a heavy sleeper, unfortunately,” you admitted, rationalizing that it didn’t sound so embarrassing if she thought you a tailor and not a spy.

“Well, sit down. I thought I might surprise you, you being such a good friend of Eggsy’s… It’d do you good to get some breakfast in you!”

It’d been such a long time since anyone cooked you breakfast and you gratefully sat down. You couldn’t see what she was making and you went through a long list of what she might be making: Pancakes? Sausage and eggs? Bacon? Waffles? American breakfast foods – so precious, so pure! It made you so giddy that you accepted a curious J.B. onto your lap and made faces to Daisy across the table. Thank God that you hadn’t frozen into your deliberately ugliest one because Eggsy came into the kitchen, looking like he’d been out for a run; though you questioned his sanity about wanting to exhaust himself again so early in the morning – also questioning where that energy came from after the long night – you realized that he’d at least tried to save your reputation by making it seem like he hadn’t been with you at all.

Michelle tutted. “Where’ve _you_ been? Here – give us a kiss…”

He relented. “Thought I might go out for a run. I was a bit sore, though – long night on the couch… Here, I’ll bring it to her…”

He gave you a wink as he slid your plate of breakfast towards you; but instead of pancakes or sausages or your brother’s signature breakfast (eggs and bacon in the shape of a smiley face) you were treated to the sight of beans on toast. Nothing more elegant than that: beans, on toast. For breakfast.

You forced an enquiring smile up at him. “Eggsy,” you said in a sweet voice, so soft that it wouldn’t carry, “what the fuck is this?”

“This? It’s breakfast.”

“Beans are a dinner food, aren’t they?”

He looked genuinely puzzled, so you couldn’t be certain of whether or not he was fucking with you. “Are they?”

Well – you knew from the onset that English food was nothing to write home about, and at least Eggsy left to get changed, so he wouldn’t see you vomit it back onto your plate if something went wrong. But with the practice from the night before you shoveled it down without gagging and even managed a brave smile at the end of it.

As you tried to figure out the most indiscreet way to excuse yourself to brush your teeth a hundred times, Eggsy reappeared, dressed for partnering up with Mathilde; you didn’t look forward to relieving him to work with Hayes later. A kiss on the cheek for his mom, and for his sister, but when Michelle’s back was turned he turned your face gently to give you a kiss on the mouth that only Daisy saw. 

“I’m off,” he announced, and since Michelle was watching you did your best to not stare at his behind as he left. But perhaps you weren’t as opaque as the car windows when you’d first had sex, because when he shut the door behind him you could have sworn that she gave you a sidelong glance that suggested some good-natured suspicion that you would do well to assuage. 

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to want to pursue you about it just yet. “And when do you have to get to work?” 

“Oh – I go in a bit later. Good for me, right? I stayed up too late last night.” _Fucking your son._

“Well, when you’re so young, that’s to be expected, eh…? You must love to have a good time… I was the same, when I was your age…”

_I love fucking your son, if that’s one way to define having a good time._ “Not too much, I’m afraid… I think I’m turning into an old person already.”

“So soon? I guess you have seemed a bit stressed lately. You need to get anything off your chest, love?”

_The only thing I needed to get off of it was the mess your son made on it last night._ “That’s very kind, but I’m fine… Just working some longer hours at work.”

“I’m glad Eggsy has a work friend, and I’m glad he was so good enough to let you stay over for your internship. I rather did like Roxy, too – ” (Thankfully she didn’t notice how you almost bent her spoon in half at that) “ – but you two get along so well. Just what do you do all day, when I’m not here?”

_Oh… Well, just conventional platonic friendship stuff. Long walks, grocery shopping, the usual._ “Fucking.” _Oh, fuck._ “Love.” _That wasn’t much fucking better, was it?_ “I fucking… love your son.”

You paused, mulling over these poorly chosen words, and you hung your head, defeated. You saw literally no way for you to finagle your way out of this one, and rather than make it worse by trying to revise the statement further from the hectic lie or truth or half-truth you’d given already, you let it be. “Please don’t ever tell him I said that.”

Michelle just stared at you, shocked into a brief silence. “Well – love.” It seems like you’d actually stumped your host; looks like this was yet another hovel you could never show your face in, despite the fact that you lived there. “Ah, well… It’s safe with me.”

You wondered how to end this evidently fucked conversation, and reasoned that you could at least be polite about the whole affair; back home, back when you’d had actual friends, you had a tendency to appropriate their houses and by proxy their parents, until your brother had given you some scolding parental manners. “Thank you very much for letting me stay here,” you mumbled. “May I be excused?”

True to her word, Michelle never mentioned a word of your abortive cover-up to Eggsy, despite the fact that you had stayed up all night trying to think of a way to explain it away in case he asked. (You were just trying to cover up for your sexual escapades, after all…) But he never caught on about it, and you would have been glad – were it not for the fact that now Michelle had taken to winking at you whenever you and Eggsy were within ten feet of each other, and you looked to Daisy more and more, wondering when she would catch on to some adult wisdom and start doing the same. And it would have driven you crazy – had it not been for the fact that there were just a couple of weeks left for the mission.


	18. Some Time to Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you do not speak the local dialect.

_**Manner #4** — If you do need to get somebody's attention right away, the phrase "excuse me" is the most polite way for you to enter the conversation._

 

As you worked your hardest to not accidentally confess your love about yet another person, you found yourself getting sad and nostalgic despite the time you still had left. For all the shit you gave it, something about London had captured your heart. Was it the mind-numbing tea obsession? The constant queueing? The sometimes nigh-incomprehensible accents? Or had you, unlike Danson, actually gotten accustomed to the lackluster weather patterns? Whatever it was – a mystery.

“Oh, fuck,” Eggsy breathed against your neck, his hips pinning yours to the couch. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

_Okay, maybe not_ that _much of a mystery,_ you reflected, rubbing his back as the two of you caught your breath. Well, you’d give him this – he never had a bad plan when it came to needing to kill time. He pushed off of you reluctantly and you worked from side to side like a displaced turtle until you could right yourself. Perhaps it wasn’t the best activity to dabble in when you needed to be at the top of your game in a few hours, but you wouldn’t say no to it, regardless. If anything – it was part of a complex recipe for good luck, since you personally felt that the mission had been improving beautifully since your access to it had started.

“What are you feeling?” he asked you with that masculine postcoital ease as he drew up the energy to stand. “I think I just worked up an appetite.”

“Ah, you’re a kid,” you admonished, if only to cover up for the fact that you were also in the mood to eat. “We have time before the parade, don’t we…? Let’s do it…”

The two of you ended up being the only two in a pub who busied themselves with eating voraciously as everyone else remained preoccupied with getting sloshed as early as possible. Luckily you had refrained from making some offensive joke in their direction, because minutes later, two young people walked in and immediately made their way over to Eggsy.

The conversation that followed seemed to be in English, though it was hard to be sure; you could only describe it as fluent chav. Clearly they were friends, close pals from a distant age, and you smiled placidly as they gesticulated wildly. At one point Eggsy gestured to you good-naturedly and you did your best to translate what he was saying about you, though it had to be positive, since they grinned back at you and invited you into an esoteric handshake that you hoped you successfully winged.

Being linguistically left out of the encounter didn’t bother you – it wasn’t like you didn’t have an accent, either, although this was on a whole other level – but you wished that you knew them better, or else you wouldn’t have felt so shy about stuffing your cheeks like a chipmunk in front of them. You took to small, polite bites until you felt ready to use the ladies’ room, though you quickly found yourself imprisoned: one of Eggsy’s friends sat down beside you in the booth seat right as you felt ready to get up, and you were surrounded by three lads with banter that went right over your head.

_I studied multiple languages for years – debatable results – for this?!_ Clearly they hadn’t prepped you enough for your leave in London, because you didn’t speak chav. How were you supposed to break into a conversation like this? Well – time to try what you vaguely remembered from foreign TV –

“Oi,” you exclaimed, turning towards the lad to your side, “Let me out for a minute. I need to wank off.”

Eggsy choked on what he was drinking and his buddy’s neck nearly broke as he snapped his head around to look at you.

“Pop off,” you corrected yourself, not fully sure on what the other word meant. “To the bathroom. Or toilet. Loo. Whichever.”

At last you were free to go; when you were finished you admired yourself in the bathroom mirror before looking down to find the hand soap pump. When you looked back up you found yourself to no longer be alone, though your new comrade wasn’t some young woman in need of emptying her bladder. Instead you look into the mirror to meet the eyes of an incredibly irritated young man.

“Danson,” you snapped, whirling around to face him so fast that you got water and hand soap all over his nice bespoke suit. “Jesus – so much for reading comprehension. This isn’t the room for you.”

“I go wherever I please,” he fired back, puffing himself up to equal volume as he gingerly wiped off the front of his suit. “I came here to talk to you, before the parade starts.”

“Save it for the briefing, Hayes… I didn’t come here for an early lecture.”

He wasn’t too imposing of a figure to shoulder past but his annoyance gave him strength; he blocked you with a hand on either side of you against the sill of the sink, like some malevolent bathroom seducer. “Now, just you wait. You can’t ignore me this time. _I need to tell you something,_ you understand me? It’s about you, and back home.”

“What _about_ back home?” you snapped, just in time for the door to open; you turned to whoever needed to relieve themselves at such a poor time only to find that it was Eggsy, who scowled at your compatriot and made you seriously concerned that they were slowly turning the area into a men’s bedroom.

“Thought I smelled a fuckin’ rat.” He sauntered forward, just enough for Hayes to spring away like you’d burned him. “You know, it’s actually pretty conspicuous when you come into a place like this in a full suit.”

Hayes adjusted his tie with a huff, and you could tell that he was trying to formulate a winning strategy after Eggsy had already made him back down once. “I dressed like this before I even joined Kingsman, thank you very much. Now, don’t get closer; you might get filth on it…”

With a snarl you shoved your hands into your pockets and aimed a kick at his genitals that was so quick he yelped as he turned away. “What the fuck is with you, Hayes? You come here demanding that I listen to you, and then you act like such an asshole?”

He actually reddened; perhaps a reaction to your and Eggsy’s double-teaming was involuntary, something even he couldn’t control. “I mean it. You’re not getting away with it so easily, you hear me? Like Washington would need another excuse to dump your ass, Kennedy or no.”

The mention of your brother was enough to provoke you into a blinding rage, but something about his statement confused you, and thus neutralized you for a moment. “Get away with what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The register!” Now he reddened further, from indignation this time. “A low move, even for you. They shouldn’t have ever let you in in the first place – with you being so – irresponsible.”

“Bullshit,” Eggsy broke in, moving forward to give him a little shove away, perhaps wisely putting as much space as possible between you and Hayes. “You make it sound like she’s never done anything good in her life. And for all of this fucking noise that we and the Americans can’t _fundamentally_ get along or whatever, she’s _never_ let me down.”

Was this some secret confession of love? Despite the heat of the moment you did have to admit that your heart throbbed a bit, hearing that. After your brother had gone, it was so rare to find someone who was so easily willing to defend you, for no other reason or motive other than because he simply wanted to do it.

But it just provoked Hayes more, and your stunned and goopy hesitation just left him an opening to launch his own counterattack; and like a poker player with a tell, you knew what he was about to do before he even opened his mouth, that disgusted sneer of his a clear indicator of what was to come. “You think she’s just so fucking great, huh? Did she ever tell you – ”

“Hayes,” you warned, feeling your hackles rise already; you knew exactly what his trump cards were, and in the exact order he’d play them.

“ – that she’s not even Lincoln?” He seemed excited about that one, and truth be told, it’d have been quite scandalous had that not been known for weeks now.

“Yeah, I know,” Eggsy deadpanned. “I don’t really care, actually.”

“Oh.” Hayes paled a bit, clearly not expect that. But he was good at these sorts of games, so he bounced back immediately: “And about what happened with Ripley’s daughter? Diplomat’s six-year-old girl held hostage; it was just a simple trade. Couldn’t believe they trusted her with Hendrick after that, honestly. _Someone’s_ gun went off right at the critical moment, and both her and the hostage ended up dead. Really messy, really sad; and she got one of our agents killed. Did she tell you about that, huh? We were all surprised when they let her out after that…”

Ordinarily you would shrink back from the humiliating moment in your career, a moment so early that it had doomed you from the start; your reputation had ended before it had even had a chance to begin. You half-expected Eggsy to falter at that, to give you the look of shocked mistrust, but when he looked to you it was only with commiserating disbelief: _Can you believe this fucking guy?_

Emboldened, you were ready to fire back. “And the ballistics report came back to prove that, yes, it was Hoover’s gun that went off in the first place, that idiot; getting a headshot was probably the most merciful thing that the diplomat could have wanted for him.”

“Still…” His eyes flashed at that; clearly he wasn’t prepared for a counterattack. “And how are you going to explain the time when you wasted time and money to follow _a person of interest_ related to that terrorist Geoff Dunn, just for all of us to come pounding on the door of his favorite prostitute?”

He had to know he was losing; he would have never brought up such a losing play otherwise. “And she knew where he was headed to next, and we cut him off. Any other embarrassment related to that was inconsequential.”

You knew he was backed into a corner, metaphorically and almost literally and you knew that you should have been more defensive about it. Because you knew that he knew – or at least purported to know – something horrible about you. But you weren’t. You were so overjoyed to finally have an ally besides Mathilde that you let yourself get cocky. So you weren’t prepared for Hayes, in the throes of a loser’s panic, turn to Eggsy with a hostile sneer and say, “You know she tried to kill herself, once?”

Silence. Eggsy looked to you, startled, waiting for you to combat the accusation as you had before, to give your reasoning, to give the esoteric justification that would explain anything in a manner that would make you look better in the outcome. But you were staring at Hayes with something of shock and horror and – perhaps – shame, too.

“No,” you said, but your voice seemed too quick, too quiet. “That is not true.”

“Hadn’t you ever wondered how she didn’t get hurt when Valentine’s cell phones were making everyone kill each other?” Hayes asked, his attention still on Eggsy. “She tried to OD on Mamie. Well – what _we_ call some poison, not really _poison,_ that acts as a sleep drug. She was in solitary for quite a while, as punishment. Can you believe it? When we pulled her out, she had no idea what had happened, and…”

“That is _not true,_ ” you repeated, forcefully this time, shoving Hayes back against the sink with so much aggression that it was a surprise you hadn’t shattered his back. “Don’t you ever say that again. Don’t you — ”

“Hey,” Eggsy said, gently but firmly seizing the hem of your shirt between just two fingers, if only to just remind you that he was there. “He’s really not worth it. Trust me; I know.”

Hayes cursed and rubbed his back, saying something about filing a complaint, but you acquiesced and backed off. Though Eggsy might have had something in mind about holding Hayes hostage and dangling him out of a window until he apologized to you, you stepped away and allowed your American coworker to flee.

He expected you to at least say something – you always had something to say, after all – but you were strangely silent and ashen after the confrontation. You told him that you’d be outside, and you waited for him to say good-bye to his friends and pay the bill before he joined you.

“It wasn’t true,” was what you’d told him, after nearly ten minutes of silence as you walked back to his home with him. “I’d been having trouble sleeping. I – confiscated some vials of Mamie from the cache. That was all. It wasn’t illegal. I signed the register and everything…”

_Register._ Hayes had mentioned something about that, hadn’t he? You pushed the thought away immediately, chalking it up to more of his bullshit. Like you needed another excuse to hate him; he had already tried to make you look like some sort of maniac, in front of your partner and apparent lover, at that. You slid your gaze over to Eggsy, wondering if he was going to look at you differently, but for what it was worth he seemed to have accepted whatever truth or lie or half-and-half you had given him. 

The two of you stopped at a red light. Official-looking cars passed, and in the distance you could see roadblocks being set up. Preparations, you knew, for the upcoming parade.

“I believe you,” he said, and it seemed to be all he needed to say. At least, it was all it took to make you nearly weightless with relief and gratitude. “Now, let’s forget about that arsehole and get ready for this shit ahead, yeah?”

“Right.”

You went home and changed, and when you were done you returned to the safe house, where the royal family was waiting for you. All of them were tense with excitement for the festivities ahead, and though you already had a headache over the close attention you’d have to give them throughout the whole thing, you had to admit that the sight of them together like peas in a royal Scandinavian pod cheered you up a bit. Especially since they were contrasted so well with Hayes, who took one look at you and Eggsy together and had his tail between his legs.

“All right,” you said, as brightly as possible, “let’s get this shit over with.”

Gitta gave you a disapproving look at the language in front of the family, but Hendrick and the twins were too giddy to notice. You let Mathilde take over the big discussion about how the evening was going to play out and took a seat. You wondered why you couldn’t take your eyes off of the children, watching them as closely as if you were their own mother. But you wrote it off as mere nerves and adrenaline; you couldn’t know, of course, that within twenty-four hours one of them would be dead.


	19. That's Quite Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hendrick is disappointed about the parade.

_**Manner #3** – Do not interrupt grown-ups who are speaking with each other unless there is an emergency. They will notice you and respond when they are finished talking. _

It was a beautiful day for a parade, and you felt fortunate enough to be able to have a good enough position to sort of see what was going on. It would have been an idyllic scene, except for –

“I can’t see anything,” Hendrick complained from somewhere beneath you. “Lift me up!”

You sighed. It was proper form to encircle those who you were protecting, but it came at a disadvantage to Hendrick, who was so fucking short that he could hardly see anything at all. It was unfair to him, true, but you’d much rather have him see glimpses of the parade through gaps in the swathes of bodies around him than hoist him up on your shoulders and let him be a perfect target for a sniper.

Not that there was much protection besides you, anyway. You hated being out there, looking upon rows and rows of windows, any of which could house some terrorist shooter. At least you had the vague comfort of believing that the assassination attempt rumors against Hendrick were totally overblown, even though you _did_ hold the body of a dead man who had tried to see how close he could get to the boy.

“Be good,” Eggsy had promised you earlier, “and I’ll give you something nice when it’s all done.”

_I hope that’s what I think it is._ “If I had my way you wouldn’t even be here,” you grumbled. “With everyone around, there’s no safe angle here at all. Unless we had you up in a helicopter or something. If whoever’s out to get you is confident that they can just walk up and do it, a parade like this is a perfect place to do it.”

“Father would put me on his shoulders sometimes,” Hendrick went on, clearly not listening to you. “Put me on your shoulders or I’ll put you on the list!”

“Didn’t you hear me? You’re lucky to be here at _all!_ Be happy you can see what you can!”

“Well, I’m _not,_ ” Hendrick proclaimed, stomping his foot. “We’re too far _back!_ ”

In truth you were; you were all clustered against the side of the building, keeping the royal family behind a four-person wall of bulletproof suits. Though you could think of a good ten ways that assassin-you could fuck shit up, you had to admit that an Average Joe assassin would have a harder time than just walking up and shooting him. Or maybe you just had it up to there with Hendrick’s bullshit and you half-hoped that someone would just _end_ it already. You looked over to Mathilde and Danson to bail you out before you strangled him, but they were firmly resigned to looking around with importance, leaving you to deal with your young asset.

“Sorry, mate,” Eggsy said, saving you by breaking in as the good cop. “You’d be too easy of a target up that high.”

“Hmph.” Hendrick folded his arms like the goddamn child he was but said nothing more. You looked to Eggsy helplessly: how come _he_ was never put on the list?! Was it his gentler touch compared to your manic refusals? Or was Eggsy being an older male automatically put him on Hendrick’s good side? Maybe he wanted a big brother more than anything.

_Well,_ you thought glumly, _that makes two of us._ You remember when your own brother had brought a very young you to a parade to give your parents a break, carrying you on his shoulders much like Hendrick wanted. You were gleeful at being up so high, clapping your hands in a frenzied rhythm as the magic of the parade had overwhelmed you. Now it seemed so strange to view one, years later, and to see it as a front for endless opportunities of violence against those you were assigned to protect.

“This is a very good parade,” Ninette put in, trying to be helpful.

Heike came in for the assist, too. “Yes, very good.”

“That’s because you can _see_ it,” Hendrick grumbled.

“Oh, look, Hendrick!” Gitta cried out, pointing towards a large float that was slowly meandering by. “It’s in the shape of an elephant!”

“An elephant?!” Hendrick tried to squirm past you, but you held him back with an iron arm. “Let me see the elephant! If you don’t let me see him, I’ll put you on the list!”

“I’m sorry,” Gitta apologized quickly. “It’s his favorite animal. Hendrick, my darling, it’s very high up – you should be able to see it from where you are…”

“I _can’t!_ ” he cawed, stomping his foot ineffectually against the pavement. “Make them move it closer!”

“I think we’ll have problems with that,” you replied dryly.

“Then can’t _we_ move?! I want to see it!”

“No, Hendrick, I’m sorry. This position was chosen very carefully…” You turned your head to see Danson perked up and looking at something in the distance, and though you tried to follow his gaze you couldn’t see around him without breaking position. “Roosevelt, what is it?”

Hendrick was obstinate. “But I – ”

“Hold on just one second, your royalness. Roosevelt, you’re pale. What are you looking at?”

“It can’t be,” Danson muttered, breaking position to move ahead a little. “What…?”

The little future king was stomping his foot and squalling about something, but you figured that he would at least know how to wait until adults were finished talking, so you unwisely ignored him. “Hayes, _what?_ ”

Eggsy was looking over at the same direction, too, as he was the only one on the same flank as Danson, and therefore the only one who could see into his side of the crowd. “Can’t see a fuckin’ thing.”

This must have been the longest Hendrick went ignored, because he was all but throwing a tantrum, and even Gitta couldn’t calm him down. The elephant slowly rounded the corner and went out of view, and though you knew that’d be a bad mark against you in his eyes, you figured that he couldn’t possibly be _that_ upset over it.

Though there was no love lost between you and Danson Hayes, you would begrudgingly admit that he was a competent agent and extremely disciplined, almost as much as Kinsey was. But for once he was behaving strangely, erratically, and to your shock he broke rank to take a few steps forward in the direction he was looking.

Before you could bark at him to return to the form, the damage had been done. Hendrick was so small, so quick that like a tiny rodent he was able to squirm out of the space Danson had created and bolted out quicker than you could catch him. You cried out his name but he didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around to look at you. Going in the direction of the parade, as you could tell, and presumably the elephant he was so afraid of missing.

“That fucking idiot,” you cursed, feeling very much like stomping your foot as well. You half-jogged forward and turned to Eggsy to find him almost proposing to follow you, but you called, “I’ll go and get him, don’t worry. Get Roosevelt back and move the royal family this way a little, will you? I don’t want to have to drag him half a mile back here.”

As Eggsy complied, Mathilde trying to wrench her partner back into formation, you took off running after Hendrick. It was a harder task than you would have thought; he could easily squeeze in the spaces between spectators whereas you had to push and shove and generally look like a non-Englishperson, rudely yelling commands as you tried to fight your way towards him. A hundred horrible scenarios ran through your head: Hendrick getting shot by an assassin, or trampled by the crowd, or kidnapped by some random asshole looking for a ransom. God, you were going to end the mission with a full head of gray hairs, you could tell…

But fortunately you had better stamina than the kid and you managed to outpace him before he got too far, and you grabbed him by the collar and wrenched him close against you. “Hendrick, you moron, you could have gotten killed! Did you forget I’m here to _protect_ you? That’s not for no reason!”

Hendrick was throwing himself back and forth, trying to get out of your iron grip, and you were concerned for a moment that someone around you would have thought you were trying to steal him. You ignored how the scene must have looked to others and looked up, trying to see if the royal family was near, but you couldn’t see anyone past the crowds. Hendrick was trying to kick you in the shin and you already recognized his move, and you had moved yourself to a safer distance and were starting to berate him. The effort to restrain yourself from imparting some corporal punishment on him seemed momentarily the most paramount concern in your life, until an earth-shattering blast sounded so close that it nearly broke your eardrums, and everything around you descended into hell.


	20. Fall, Crash, Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things explode.

_**Manner #13** — Never use foul language in front of adults. Grown-ups already know all those words, and they find them boring and unpleasant._

Your reaction time was usually excellent, but the blast rocked you so thoroughly that for a few moments you were completely off-kilter, your brains scrambled. _What the fuck just happened?_ You looked up to see a cloud of gray-white mushroom up from the pavement far too close to where you were with Hendrick. At once your memories threw you backwards and gruesome flashbacks clouded your vision – the Boston Bombings, the panic, the disorientation. Or was that just you? You felt rather concussed, as if the blast was ten feet away from you and not a hundred. You tried to reorient yourself, but when you felt your hands empty a flashbang of panic went through you as you realized you no longer had Hendrick.

“Lincoln!” Hendrick cried out from nearby, quelling your fears that he had run off once more, and you turned haphazardly to see him running towards you. He was pale with fright; on some misplaced motherly instinct you threw your arms open and he ran into them, clinging to you with panic, something you would have much preferred he’d done earlier.

“Is anyone there?” you yelled into your comm – much too loudly, your hearing going in and out – and thankfully it only took you a moment to realize that it was dead, because the tone of your voice would only made Hendrick panic more. With a jolt of pure terror you realized that the blast that had nearly knocked you around had come from the direction you’d come from. And the direction where Eggsy and Mathilde were waiting with the royal family.

Hendrick was clinging to you so tightly that there was no way you could walk, but you weren’t thinking clearly, and you worked entirely on the basest of human instinct: mechanically you reached down and scooped Hendrick up in your arms, moving in just some general direction with the crowd away from the blast site, not wanting to be the dumbass who ran back towards a bombing to find her lover.

“I’m sorry,” Hendrick was bawling into your shoulder. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it. I don’t want you on the list. I didn’t mean it…” And then, swallowing a sob, he said, “I’m _scared…_ ”

_Me too,_ you wanted to say, but you supposed it wouldn’t be much of a comfort. “It’s okay,” you reassured him, though you wondered if half of it was for yourself as well. “It’s all right, baby. I’m going to get you out of here.” Your hand went up to stroke his hair for comfort, and for once it shocked you to cup his skull in your hand, to find out how tiny it was against your palm; he was far too old to be picked up and carried like this, surely, but you were doing it as easily as if he were a toddler.

He had been nothing but a pain to you for the entire mission but you couldn’t help but feel a wave of empathy for him as you moved with him, clinging tightly to him as if he were your own son. “Father,” he was crying against your ear, “I want Father! I want Mother! I want Mother and Father!”

You tried desperately to find some sort of wise consolations to give him. Were you going the right way? Surely you were going the right way, and you weren’t automatically moving back to find Eggsy? But sure enough, there was some strange red matter underneath your feet, threatening to make you slip and slide, but you held firm. Coming up with no original or relevant platitudes of reassurance, you told him the one you already knew: “Don’t look down.”

A wave of insight washed over you: so you and Hendrick were really not so different. He was crying for his dead parents, the only protection he knew, a source of warmth and comfort and safety in a terrifying time; hadn’t you done the same about your brother, invoking his image into your mind whenever you needed courage? He had lost so much, and so had you, and you held him tighter and promised, “Just hold on to me, okay?”

A second blast went off and the wail of panic crescendoed. Where had the second one come from? You turned in panic but your inner compass was askew, and you could only notice a figure in the distance who was jogging towards you. Suddenly you saw the flaw in holding Hendrick in front of you and prepared to work your reflexes to let you turn and take whatever bullet was meant for him – a bomb, you supposed, would be harder to save him from – but as the figure approached you realized that they were calling your name.

“Eggsy,” you cried. Your head was spinning and synapses misfired, warning you for some reason that you were doing something wrong. “Ah, fuck – I mean, Galahad – fuck.”

“Thank fucking _Christ,_ ” he was saying, and though the world around you was still in chaos, you could nevertheless read immense relief from his face. “You’re not hurt? And Hendrick?”

Your legs were about to go out from under you and you weren’t sure if it was from relief or fatigue or something else. Closing the distance between the two of you, you assured him, “We’re all right,” which was perhaps the most British thing you could have said at the moment considering you had narrowly dodged a bomb attack.

“Thank _God._ ” And Hendrick began to squirm and cry, indignant and being crushed between two kissing adults. “Fucking bomb would have been right underneath us had we not moved. It looks like Hendrick fucking about actually did some good for us. Hendrick, how are you?”

Hendrick’s face appeared from your neck for a moment, and he shot Eggsy the truest, most honest look ever. “That,” he said, “was fucking _insane!_ ”

“Hendrick!” You pulled him away from you, shocked. And then, stupidly, “Where did you _learn_ that?”

“Ah, fuck,” Eggsy cursed, then immediately looked as if he were prepared to slap himself. Attempting to right himself through rigor, he told you, “Don’t worry – Mathilde bundled the rest of the family away.”

Your heart lurched, remembering your renegade coworker who had started the mess. “And Hayes?”

“I’ve no fucking idea. Ran off after something and never came back.”

Or had he run off to get as far away from the bomb as possible? The ground underneath you started to shift and for half a moment you seriously believed that some subterranean villain was coming after you. But it seemed your legs really were about to go out from underneath you. Eggsy took Hendrick from you with ease as though he were another parent and said abruptly, “No, she’s with me.”

“Of course _your_ comms still work…”

“Is he?” Eggsy’s head snapped up. “Well, fuckin’ _hell._ ” To you he said, “They did it. They caught Hayes trying to make a run for it. Fuckin’ _co_ ward.”

You were at once both relieved and anxious: you wanted him to face justice for whatever he had done, but at the same time you weren’t sure if you wanted to know why he did it. Taking Hendrick back as if he were a security blanket, you said, “I’ll remove some of his teeth at a later time, but I think now we should focus on getting the fuck out of here.”

“Already fucking done. Our ride’s on its way.”

You were waddling away with Hendrick, not certain if it was a wise idea to stay squatting on one spot for too long. “Shouldn’t they already be gone with the rest of the family?”

“They are. Separate-like. Didn’t want Mathilde and the kids to wait. But I made sure they had another one coming.”

You scoffed, exasperated. “And why didn’t you go with them?! You could have gotten killed out here!”

His eyes sparked. “You really think I could ever leave without knowing where the _fuck_ you are?”

“I… Well…” You wanted to dig up something supremely goopy to say in return, but given the scenery, you weren’t certain if it was too appropriate and you decided to just remind yourself to lavish affection at a more apt time. “Well, do you know where we’re getting picked up?”

As if on cue, a vehicle came out of nowhere in the smoke and screeched to a halt beside you. Before you could even process what had happened, Hendrick was pulled from your arms by three burly Kingsmen agents and placed like some sort of delicate endangered animal in the backseat.

“Hey, wait!” you cried, not wanting to be separated from him. He looked at you with watery eyes and the buried maternal instinct that had sparked earlier was inflamed. But the door was shut in your face and the cab eased through the crowds of fleeing, panicked citizens with zero regard for the agents left behind.

“Wow, they didn’t want to pick us up?” You kicked a chunk of gravel in their direction. “Makes sense, I guess. Did you see the size of those fucking guys? There wouldn’t be room for any of us unless I sat on their laps.”

“Not if I had a fucking say in it.” Eggsy sighed. “Guess we’d better find our way back…”

“…Lincoln?” Finally you heard Mathilde’s voice through your comm; good to know it came back to life exactly when you stopped needing it. “Are you with Galahad yet?”

“Yes, baby. The package is secure. Any news on whoever the fuck did all this?”

“They’ve caught two men fleeing – ”

“But everyone’s fleeing – ”

“Yes, but the _right_ men fleeing, and Hayes too.” Mathilde’s voice was tight with suppressed emotion; Hayes had been her partner, after all, and the strain from the apparent betrayal was evident. “I’m with the family. Can you get somewhere safe yet?”

“I’m trying to get some transportation.” You banged ineffectually at your comms, wondering how you were supposed to switch gears on it. “Merlin? Arthur? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” a deep voice said dryly on the other end, and you almost jumped in surprise. “I’ve been here the whole time, actually. Next time, please resist aborted love confessions until you’re off the air.”

“Aha.” You reddened and coughed, trying to keep your composure as Eggsy bit back a grin. “Could I get a ride out here, please? Your fucking agents sort of left us behind.”

“Can’t have all the eggs in one basket. What would you like?”

“What would I like? I dunno. A fucking limo, maybe?”

“And you really wonder where Hendrick gets his sudden bad language from?”

“Oh, shit. Please don’t tell Gitta.”

“Roger that,” Merlin said, and you weren’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not until you went a little ways ahead to find, in actuality, a limo waiting for you.

“But it’s so _tiny,_ ” you complained, entirely forgetting about the bombings that had happened just minutes before as you squatted beside it.

Eggsy inspected it and found it empty. (Did they really have self-driving limos, too? Were all their vehicles self-driving? How useful!) “Well, yeah. Can’t exactly have a stretch limo milling about, eh?”

“Ah, whatever. I’d take a clown car at this point.”

You hustled your way inside and Eggsy followed suit. He bent over the driver’s seat and punched in some coordinates, and as he settled back down across from you the limo began to move. You looked out the tinted windows forlornly and found the streets mostly empty; after fifteen minutes, almost everyone was gone, or at least trying to get gone as quickly as possible.

It had been a wonderful parade, too. Despite Hendrick’s whining, you’d actually been starting to have a good time. The bombings, the assassination attempts, the betrayal – none of it should have happened. And everything, everything was ruined. You thought of Hendrick’s tearful eyes as he was placed into the cab away from you, and a sharp pang of grief tore through your stomach even though he had at least been safe and sound: he needed you, his bodyguard, his protector, and to be away from him, despite the good hands he was nestled in, was momentarily terrifying.

Eggsy noticed as you tried to discreetly pass a sleeve over your eye, and he reached forward to give your knee a firm, reassuring squeeze. “Hey. You were fucking fantastic, all right? Hendrick is safe because of you. Fuck – so is the whole family. You’re an amazing agent, Harrison. This whole mission’s proved that.”

You reddened at his words, at the praise you weren’t used to receiving. Mathilde would compliment your work, true, but as she was your good friend, you always felt like there was some sort of obligation behind it; and of course, Kinsey and Hayes would likely rather step on a Lego than give you any sort of warm words. So your first reaction was to blow it off, to tell him that you had done little but waddle around with an overgrown spoiled baby in your arms, and that you had been so terrified in the moments after the explosion that any agent with nerves of steel would have scoffed at your plight.

But just as you were about to refute whatever admiration you may or may not have deserved, a wave of fatigue washed over you and all manner of fighting energy washed out of you. You blinked, sleepy. Just how long had you been awake, anyway? Certainly not long enough to feel so absolutely exhausted. Biting back a yawn, you pressed your hand onto his and said, “Thanks, Eggsy. Right back atcha.”

He suppressed a grin at your thoroughly Americanized vowels and leaned back, fighting at his tie. “God, this thing’s moving slow.”

“Well, it’s not its fault that just about everyone’s ignoring traffic laws and jaywalking.”

“Ignoring traffic laws? Next you’ll be telling me they’re not queuing up to escape.”

You laughed for the first proper time all day; it was to be expected that he could still maintain a good mood. After all, the denouement to his experiences with a genocidal maniac and his partner with blades for legs was a sexual romp with royalty. And as if he had that on his mind, he shot you a look that was half-exhausted, half-lustful across the cab.

“I foresee a lot of shit in the future,” Eggsy decided, “but I can think of one or two ways to properly celebrate. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Car sex?” you finished fondly, though your eyelids were feeling so heavy as your adrenaline escaped you.

“You did order a _fucking limo._ Might as well turn it into one.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way and praised yourself for being so unintentionally clever. “Mmm, that could be nice. Much roomier than the other one. But we could always wait until we’re out of a potential danger zone.”

“For what?” Eggsy was clambering over to you, but in an instant it seemed to be in the way that a lover crosses a mattress to bury his head in a pillow and not into an expanse of flesh. Was he feeling the post-cataclysm fatigue, too?

“For your bed.” You stretched out languidly as he sat beside you. “Your very nice mattress…”

“Oh, don’t. I barely slept last night…”

“Very, you know, soft… And warm…”

With the reminder of his energy he had been trying to unbutton your blouse, but he paused, mulling over the image. “Fuck, it _is…_ ”

“And so very comfy…”

“Maybe I should just close my eyes. Just for a minute… We have plenty of time until we get there…”

Merlin was waiting for the two agents as the limo pulled up in front of the rendezvous point. He expected the two of you to appear immediately, and when he didn’t he first panicked and then grew apprehensive; it was possible that the two of you were dead somehow in that forbidding black vehicle, but it was also equally possible that you were fucking and had gotten so carried away that you had forgotten where you were headed, and you needed a minute to readjust your clothing and pretend as though he, a secret agent, couldn’t tell when two people had finished having sex.

When the two of you hadn’t left the limo after five minutes, the apprehension grew into mere impatience and Merlin strode over to the limo and firmly rapped against the mirror. True fear washed over him when there was no response, and without further warning he ripped open the limo door.

Inside were neither two corpses nor two lovers caught in an embrace. Rather, you both were stretched out across the seat, not dead but dead asleep. Eggsy was nestled rather comfortably snuggled against your chest, and you were snug underneath him with a hand against his back to either bring closer or to soothe into sleep.

With a sigh of resolution, Merlin leaned forward to shake the two of you, to stir you into waking, but he reminded himself that you had managed to get through the worst possible scenario with zero causalities among the royal family. Of course, he had so much to go over with you – the bombing, the suspects, the traitor among you – but perhaps it could wait a minute or two, and he withdrew his hand.


	21. Tonight Someone Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you see a pair of shoes.

_**Manner #10** — Knock on closed doors -- and wait to see if there's a response -- before entering._

You had been hoping that the debriefing would have more revelations than you could have ever hoped for, but as you sleepily attended, you figured that it was nothing you couldn’t have figured out yourself: the bombers were linked to investigations regarding the assassination of the royal family and the intended installation of a military dictatorship; the bombs had been, in an uneasy replication you recognized, in the form of pressure cooker bombs transported via backpack; and Hayes was in custody and spouting off some nonsense that you weren’t privy to listening in on. You were let go with some restrained British praise on the part of Merlin for your quick thinking – again, you didn’t consider it to be so brilliant, but you’d take it nonetheless – and you and Eggsy were relieved that, for the first time in what felt like forever, you’d have an actual, real-life day off, because the mission was all but over. The parade had proved to Gitta that another week in England was really not necessary, and the royal holiday was drawn to a close. The royal family was to be moved into a different safe house that night until their flight the next day, where they’d receive, ostensibly, the best protection possible 24/7 from their own people.

“I could have just stayed home from that, to be honest,” you grumbled as the two of you approached his home. “I mean, what did we learn? I’m sure there are other terrorists out there, and Hendrick’s going to be without our protection when he goes home, anyway. If anything, I feel bad that he’s going to be without us soon…”

Eggsy looked at you for a long moment, and you sighed. “Yeah, I’m not 100% sincere about that, but hey… Anyways, why can’t we hear what Hayes has to say? He could drop _some_ kind of useful hint. Broken clocks, blah blah blah.”

“What, some bastard banging on about whatever falls into his head so he can get out of his part in a big assassination against some _kids?_ Nah, I don’t trust ‘im. Not even as far as I can throw ‘im.”

“Ugh, me neither. I just can’t believe I _worked_ alongside that shit-for-brains…”

“Well, I’m glad you don’t anymore. He’s bad fuckin’ news.” Eggsy frowned, his eyes glazing over briefly in thought. “Doesn’t it seem weird to you, though? I mean, he can’t have possibly fucking thought that he’d get away with it. Not when he’s going off like that like he’s lost his mind, when everyone’s watching him.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way, and though it made you uneasy, you didn’t want to think about any more convoluted betrayal plots. “You’ve got a point. But I guess you can’t be expected to think straight when you’re betraying an entire country, as well as the organization you’ve been working for since you were nineteen.”

“Yeah. And like you said: shit-for-brains. But they’ll get to it eventually. And this should be a time for celebrating; the mission’s over.”

Was it really time for that? You felt nothing but desolation in the pit of your stomach; soon, you’d have to return home with Kinsey and return to being a loser, someone no one outside of Mathilde wanted to work with, someone ridiculed and bullied and treated like an imbecile. And worst of all – you’d be without Eggsy, sentimental as it was to think about. God, you’d quit the service for him, that sexy English secret spy motherfucker. (Was that an appropriate sentimental thought to fit the occasion? Perhaps not, but still…) Still, you had to fight the urge to go teary-eyed, as you saw Eggsy’s lopsided grin out of the corner of your eye and you knew exactly what it meant.

“Did you get well-rested in the limo?” he teased. “I hope you’re ready to spend the rest of your day off doing something worthwhile.”

You laughed. “Hey — same to you. If you just kept me awake, we wouldn’t have wasted our big chance at hot limo sex…”

“I’ll do my best to get us another situation where we can try again, yeah? Hopefully one where Merlin doesn’t have to catch us in the end…”

“Oh, God.” As he fumbled for his keys, you thought of something that had slipped your mind. “The first time, in the company car… Those things have transmitters, right? Do you think he heard us?”

Eggsy froze. “Actually, I… don’t think I had that in mind.”

“Oh. Well, fuck. He should be glad we’re getting along so wonderfully… Your mom home?”

“Nah. She was with my gran, but with everything that’s happened, she didn’t want to go out traveling with Daisy.”

“Hah. Let’s thank the god of lust that we have such excellent luck with getting a house to ourselves…”

“Uh, not the last time, sweetheart. You just _had_ to paw all over me while Mum was in the next room – ”

“Oh, you – ”

But he really _was_ doing a good job at being diverting, so much so that the wistful and solemn mood you’d had earlier was slipping away under the pleasant glow of animalistic need. Perhaps, if you couldn’t stay in England, you could always try to smuggle Eggsy back to the States for an extended, sexual holiday.

He wasn’t thinking so far into the future and was already in the process of unbuttoning the first few buttons of your blouse, making sure he had more than enough flesh to press his lips against.

“God,” he muttered against your neck. The gentle scrape of his teeth against your soft skin made you shiver, and to remedy it he replaced the sensation with a kiss. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Don’t you know that?”

You swallowed sharply and he noticed, a good-natured laugh drawn from him. God, you were sweating; he had always been irrepressible, but this was a new level of panty-melting. His hands, his mouth, his breath against you – all in the right places. Did a near-death experienced followed by a fulfilling nap bring out the worst in him?

_Best, more like,_ you knew, dragging his face up from its place at your chest so that his mouth could meet yours. Oh, Jesus. The mission was really over, and this might very well be your last fuck. Or at least, the first in a line of finite fucks. You had to make the most of it, and though your head was whirling so hard that you were afraid or perhaps hopeful that you’d lose your mind, you had enough good sense to not want to fuck all over the clean floor. “The bedroom.”

Eggsy, who was more than willing to fuck you all over the clean floor and maybe over a countertop or two, would have gone along with anything short of you asking to fuck on the moon. So the two of you somehow defied physics and made your way to the room while wrapped up in each other, and you were half-dressed when you opened the bedroom door and found Kinsey sitting on the bed.

“Sweet mother of fuck!” you cried, forgetting which swear words connected. Ordinarily your first response to a stranger in your home would have been to draw a gun, but the sight of Kinsey after so many days without seeing her disarmed you in more ways than one and you were frozen; every good word said your way throughout the mission fell out of your mind at the sight of her typical cold, disapproving stare.

Fortunately, Eggsy still had his wits about him even though most of the blood had flooded less practical areas, and he had his gun drawn in just enough time for Kinsey to raise her hands petulantly towards the ceiling.

“I’m unarmed,” she announced, her voice high and clear like ice breaking on stone. “You can put the gun down, Galahad. I’m an ally.”

Eggsy shot her an aggressive look, but glanced over at you. “You know who the fuck this is?”

“Yes, Eggsy,” you admitted, sheepish. “She’s with the American Kingsmen. She’s… Lincoln.”

He did look slightly amused at that. “No shit, really? The one you poisoned?”

“Yes,” Kinsey sighed. “Yes, I was the one vomiting her brains out on a plane, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Huh.” Eggsy lowered his gun, but he didn’t put it away. Kinsey was good-looking, true, and that usually disarmed most aggressors against her, but you supposed that it would be hard to be charmed when surprised in the privacy of your own home. “Mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing at my house? In my bedroom? In the middle of the night?”

“I thought you all would be above swearing,” Kinsey observed, folding her arms like a disappointed parent. “Clearly I was wrong. And perhaps I should have been in a more visible spot, but I thought you might have sensed that I was here and knocked first. Clearly I was wrong about that too.”

You honestly weren’t sure if Kinsey was joking – you’d never seen such a thing – but if she was, it wasn’t improving Eggsy’s opinion of her much. “Yeah, _clearly_ you were.”

“But anyway – Harrison might not have informed you, but I’ve been spending my days doing independent reconnaissance into the cell looking to kill the royal family; a necessity after she was forced to adopt my identity. I was out doing work when I saw the bombing on the news. I couldn’t very well waltz into the cousins’ headquarters when no one knew I was here, so I waited for Harrison at our assigned safe house, which she generally hasn’t been using. When she didn’t come, I became concerned, so I went to the only other place I knew she’d frequent.” For once in her life, she smiled beatifically. “I’m glad to see you well, Harrison. That’s a first.”

“Today seems to be a day for that, yeah,” you mumbled, feeling some sort of strange discontent in the universe was Kinsey allowed herself to be genuinely nice to you for once. “And? How’d it go with your, uh, independent research?”

Kinsey shook her head. “I knew they were planning something, but I didn’t think they’d try anything at the parade. If anything, they’d wait for everyone’s guard to be let down – on the day of his leaving. I can assume that the royal family is secure?”

“Of course.”

“With Mathilde, I can assume. And what of Hayes?”

“Well, he…” Your gaze slid over to Eggsy involuntarily and you found that he was giving you a careful look. You hesitated; ordinarily the sheer force of Kinsey’s overbearing personality would cause you to tell her everything, but with Eggsy beside you, it was harder for her to bully you. Deciding that it wasn’t the time for her to know everything about her old colleague’s betrayal, you simply finished with, “That’s classified.”

Kinsey’s eyes narrowed for just a fraction of a second, and on instinct you recoiled, waiting for the slap, the cutting comment. But to your shock she actually smiled again – twice in one day! – and said, “I’m proud of you, Harrison. You would have blathered on, ordinarily. You’re becoming quite the spy. Your brother would be very proud to see you here like this. You have a long way to go, of course, but you’re starting to resemble him.”

“Really?” You didn’t want your tail to wag over anything someone like Kinsey said, but your heart warmed a little, regardless. It was an automatic reaction, given the reference to your brother. For the first time, you could say with sincerity, “Thanks, Kinsey.”

Immediately her face flashed back to that frigid frown, and she shook her head. “Ah, remember, I’m still Lincoln to you. You shouldn’t be so casual with your coworkers. A rapport might have its uses in the short run, but it can create myriad problems in the long-term, especially related to attachment in a dangerous profession.”

_Well, that was nice while it lasted._ “So what are you going to do next?”

“Contact Washington, of course. He must be worried sick ever since seeing the bombing on the news, and out of all of you, I’m still his favorite. He’ll have talked to Arthur by now, but he’ll want to hear from me personally that the royal family is safe.”

Part of you would have loved to deny her that, to contact Washington yourself and take a shitload of personal credit for the mission going over so well, but another part of you was absolutely horny beyond all recognition and more than anything you wanted to get to bed. So you smiled genially. “Well, have fun with that.”

“But of course. And may I ask what your next course of action is? After the obvious debriefing you’re about to discuss with Galahad here.”

At first you sort of laughed, wondering if she was being serious, but there was stoic sincerity in her eyes and you realized that she really didn’t think you and Eggsy were about to do anything seriously unbecoming. “Uh, yeah,” you lied, since you couldn’t very well say that you were going to fuck him on whatever flat surface you could get him on. “Debrief, and then I’ll be heading to the safe house immediately to get a solid eight hours of rest.”

“Excellent plan, Harrison. I’m glad you’re beginning to take care of yourself properly.” She inclined her head in farewell as she moved past the both of you, before you had a chance to ask if she was programmed to understand sarcasm. “Harrison. Galahad.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Eggsy grumbled. He didn’t disarm himself until he was sure she was out the door and on her way down the street, and you watched him curiously.

“What’s the matter?” you asked. “Kinsey is… well, I mean, she’s awful, but she’s not evil.”

“Nah, I guess not. Just reminds me of all the arseholes I had to put up with at the start of all of this.”

“At least she’s more competent than she is a douchebag… And my brother liked her, so she can’t be all bad.”

“Nah, I guess not.” He rounded on you with such a tempting, lustful look in his eyes that his gaze alone would have upped a movie into an R-rating. “But I’d much rather talk about you, and how you’re wearing far too much clothing at the moment…”

So you and Eggsy debased and debauched yourselves in a variety of entertaining and diverting ways, none of which could have been explored with his mother or sister in the house, as you were fairly certain (even though the mind-numbing haze of ecstasy) that you were loud enough to echo throughout the house. Only after your bodies couldn’t physically handle any more shaking and rutting and clawing and groping did you both collapse on the bed and didn’t so much as open your eyes until morning the next day.

Actually, you would have been more than happy to sleep the next day away too, not attached to Hendrick enough to abandon a warm bed and warmer lover to give him a sentimental farewell. But your plans to sleep in until past noon were trampled when your phone woke you out of a dead sleep. You might have ignored it, or at least thrown it into a wall and let it cave in, but you had a very specific ringtone set for a very specific person and you shot straight out of bed when you heard it.

You picked up your phone and looked at it warily, as one might look at a potential bomb, and sure enough, you recognized the alias you had used for his name. Clearing your throat in an attempt to sound less asleep, you answered with, “Yes, Washington?”

“That’s a voice I haven’t heard in a while,” your boss’s smooth, charismatic voice said on the other line. “I’ve been speaking to Lincoln, and she’s told me that you’ve been holding up nicely.”

Should you mention that you poisoned his favorite agent? Probably not. As easily as you could manage it, you said, “I would say so.” 

“Well, that’s great to hear. Because it’s you I want to see right now.”

“Right now?” you looked over Eggsy’s slumbering form with bemusement, wondering if Washington had come along with Kinsey or something and had been hiding in a closet the whole night. “But… I’m in London…”

“Of course you are, dumbass,” he laughed, and you hoped he was just joking about the whole dumbass thing. “I’m in London too. I made arrangements to fly over as soon as I saw the bombings. Look – I’ll talk to you more at headquarters, all right? I’ll be waiting.”

“Yes, sir. Indubitably. Of course. Naturally. I’ll be there was soon as physically possible.”

“I’m glad you’ve gotten to be so chipper in the mornings. Hey – one tiny favor, though.”

“Of course. Yes. Anything. Whatever, sir.” Well, you’d never claim to have the inhuman composure of Kinsey.

“Lace-Beauchamp escorted Gitta to the safe house so that she could pick up a few things. Arthur told them not to move around too much at night, though, so they stayed over. Mind swinging by to tell them to get themselves motivated back here? I’d love to meet the little princess.”

“Absolutely, sir. I’ll leave immediately.” Eggsy stirred sleepily beside you, disturbed by your chirped affirmations, and you lay a reassuring hand on his leg to stop him from waking; immediately you felt the strength of his thigh, the muscle that laid underneath, and you regretted the promise, given the other pleasant things you could have been doing. “I’ll see you there.”

“Whhhwassat?” Eggsy yawned beside you, turning over.

You hadn’t gotten as much sleep as you would have liked, but now you were wide awake, your heart thudding so loudly in your chest that you were surprised it didn’t wake him up. “That was my boss.”

“ _What?_ ” That woke him up properly and he struggled to a sitting position beside you. “Washington? The fuck did he want at this hour?”

“To see me. He’s _here._ ” You weren’t sure if you were giddy or so completely on-edge that you were a bit panicky. “God, I’m so nervous. He always kind of shit on me, you know, subtly. Not sure how this is gonna turn out. I didn’t prepare myself.”

“You’ll be fine. He’s a fucking moron if he does anything but kiss your feet, with all the shit you’ve done for this mission,” he reassured you, stifling another yawn as he rubbed your back. “He wants to see you, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah. Just gotta pick up Mathilde and one of the kids first.”

“I’ll come with you. Might as well meet him, get it over with.”

Secretly you were overjoyed and relieved to have him with you, to act as a grounding and encouraging presence as you stood before a man who intimidated the hell out of you, yes, _you._ But perhaps – and this was all, of course, just fanciful speculation – he would see all the good you’d done in the mission and praise you, even reward you, and let you know how proud your brother would have been, yes…

The two of you got dressed and made your way to the royal family’s safe house, enjoying the obscenely and uncharacteristically warm and sunny morning. It seemed strange and almost wrong for it to be so bright and cheerful right after the bomb attack that left London still evidently stunned. And it seemed strange and almost wrong for _you_ to be so bright after the same thing, but you felt that you were in some sort of strange happy dream where the edges were all colored a soft golden glow. It didn’t seem real to you at all, that you could be walking down the street with your shoulder touching that of the man you adored, on the way to meet your boss after you had finished a mission with flying colors, even considering the whole bomb thing. And yet you were. And you were so happy with the way everything turned out that your heart felt ready to burst.

You arrived at the safe house and remembered something Kinsey had said about knocking, so instead of barging in rudely you politely rapped at the door in what you hoped was something approaching the secret knocking pattern you’d learned and quickly forgot.

Mathilde did not appear to let you in, though, so you frowned, assuming that you’d fucked the secret code up. You tried again, and though you were sure that you got it right that time, there was still no response.

“Oh, God,” Eggsy muttered from behind you. “What if they’re in bed or something, and they can’t hear us?”

“I wouldn’t think so… Mathilde wouldn’t go for someone so young, and even then, Gitta’s not her type…”

“I meant in their own separate beds, but thanks for that imagery.”

“Oh! And she wouldn’t fall asleep during guard duty, either. She defies physical necessity to do night watches.”

“After all the shit we went through yesterday? No one could stay awake after that. I was getting exhausted just thinking about it, and I’m the one who had to take down an army practically all by himself.”

“Yeah, yeah… Keep saying that whenever you need an excuse. Meanwhile, I’m perfectly content, admitting that I’m not as spry as I used to be…”

You gave Mathilde another minute to come, and when she didn’t, you went with Eggsy’s hypothesis and assumed that, for once, she was asleep. It was understandable: for once everything was safe and not everything was her problem, so perhaps for the first time during the whole mission, she could properly relax. God, hadn’t you? Though not everyone might have thought your physical stunt work the night before to be _relaxing…_

You tried the handle and were alarmed to find the door unlocked; had Mathilde forgotten to lock it or something? Impossible; that was obscenely unlike her. Perhaps someone else had dropped in and left in a hurry, and had forgotten. Nevertheless, Eggsy drew his weapon as he stepped inside, but you were so blindly optimistic that you were willing to ignore the warning signs for your best friend as you tread on anxious feet through the hallway.

When no one called out to you, you yelled Mathilde’s name once or twice in apprehension. Though all was deathly silent, nothing really seemed to be amiss, other than a pair of Mathilde’s heels that were lying just around the corner. Your footsteps seemed too loud in the quiet of the house, the pounding of your heart and ragged breathing even more deafening, and for the fiftieth time since the mission started, you had the suspicion that you had no fucking idea what was going on, or what was going to happen.

You looked down again at Mathilde’s shoes and immediately a sickening realization hit you: your mind had been playing tricks on you. They were her shoes, yes, but what you hadn’t absorbed the first time was that they were still connected to her feet, and her legs, both of which were strangely still as they disappeared around the corner.

Eggsy cursed softly and passed you; he too disappeared around the corner, and you could hear him kneeling by her side. You didn’t quite remember moving down the hallway after him. It rather seemed like you were watching a horror film, helpless as the camera wheeled you forward and made you look down dangerous alleyways and into shadowy corners.

At that moment the camera turned and you were looking down at Mathilde’s body, so strangely still and askew on the floor. Eggsy was checking her pulse from her neck and around his fingers were dark stains of bruises. Her one remaining eye was almost closed, and you could only faintly see the dark gleam of a doll’s eye from underneath the heavy lashes. From your position you could see the most alarming revelation: she had not drawn her weapon, and her hands at her side were empty.

“My fucking God,” Eggsy exclaimed, starting forward. “She’s still breathing. Barely fucking breathing, but it’s there.”

It seemed something to celebrate, but your throat was dry and your mouth empty. Eggsy looked up and saw you so strange, so pale; he had an inkling about how hard it must be to look at your best friend’s near-death experience, but another revelation went through your eyes and you said, “Gitta.”

This time you were faster than him and were already moving past him before he even had time to straighten. It pained him to leave another agent like Mathilde was, lying alone there and dying on the floor, but it struck him that neither of you had any idea if the attacker was still at large and you could be in danger; so he left to go find you, and he found you in the bedroom, where beyond your crouching form he could see another body. This one was much smaller and thinner, and he nearly vomited when you did not tell him the good news that he had given you about Mathilde.

You looked up at him wordlessly and he came over to crouch down beside you. Gitta had fallen – or perhaps, was dragged down – not far from the bed. Like Mathilde, her neck was covered in the bruises of strangulation, though hers seemed so dark they were almost black. Unlike Mathilde, her eyes were wide open, frozen in helpless shock, her jaw a little slack and her mouth open in a state of eternal surprise; but her head was turned away from you, her eyes staring sightlessly at something underneath the bed that you couldn’t see, as if turning her face away from the violence of the world she had left.

Though you wanted to swear, you couldn’t possibly find the words for it, not then and not in a hundred years. So instead the two of you just held yourselves there, suspended in time, and after what seemed like a long while you shook yourselves awake and wondered what you were supposed to do about all of it.


	22. The Living and the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you find out a thing or two.

_**Manner #5** –When you have any doubt about doing something, ask permission first. It can save you from many hours of grief later._

The next few hours were some of the most nauseating of your life. It all went by in a blur: Kingsman was called in to assess the chaos; Mathilde was wheeled away to some emergency care unit; Gitta went from being the smart and confident and responsible girl you remembered into becoming a cold and lifeless body underneath a sheet, spirited away to be used as a piece of evidence in a bigger investigation. And you… You were left alone in a cramped chair outside of the office where Merlin and Washington were discussing what was going to be done to you.

You felt very much like some troubled child left waiting outside of a principal’s office, though you were also certain that no principal would ever be discussing the possibility of you deciding to murder a member of the royal family that you were sworn to protect. Just the thought of it made you nauseous again and you put your head into your hands. How could it have happened? Poor Gitta. So kind, so sweet. Who the fuck could look at her, talk to her, and decide that they wanted her dead? And how couldn’t you have had the psychic connection to immediately sense that she was in trouble and needed your help?

Worse yet, you didn’t have Eggsy with you; he could have been some sort of emotional anchor to your turbulent thoughts, but he had disappeared off somewhere. For the umpteenth time you felt sick. Did he not want to look at you after you had so clearly failed to protect your asset? _No, of course not,_ you insisted to yourself, if only because Gitta had been his asset too, and it’s not like he had been thinking about her in the throes of passion any more than you had. (At least, you hoped not)

And Mathilde! This time you weren’t sick but tears flooded your eyes, and you replaced your head into your hands. Your best friend, the only one who had treated you well back home. Half-dead in a care unit somewhere. She hadn’t regained consciousness yet, and the doctors were not overwhelmingly confident about when she would. It would probably take some sort of magic trick, and with your luck over the past twenty-four hours, she would probably wake up with the name after the assassin long after he had already butchered the rest of the family. But even then, you knew that it might be a while until she was well enough to speak or even move after being nearly strangled to death.

Voices were getting closer to the door and you jumped out of your seat when the handle turned and the door swung open. Out walked a grim-faced Merlin, holding the door for a rather collected and amused Washington – truth be told, you never saw him with another expression – and, to your surprise, Eggsy, who followed Merlin down the opposite end of the hallway with a single look back at you before the both of them disappeared around a corner.

“Well, there she is,” Washington said, clamping a hand down onto your shoulder. One of his hands was easily as bigger than your face and about as heavy as sin, and you nearly crumpled underneath the weight of it. “We’ve been having an interesting chat about you, Harrison. Or should I say Lincoln?”

“Sir, I _swear_ I can explain everything,” you insisted, your voice immediately going unprofessionally high with strain. “I – there was an accident involving Kinsey – I mean, Lincoln – I had to make up for it. But I swear on my life, it wasn’t for any evil reason, and I _swear_ I would never, _ever_ hurt Gitta…”

Washington, who already towered over you, glowered down at you for just a moment and let you stew in your own miserable juices before sighing and patting your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it, Harrison. I know you didn’t do it.”

“Really?” Your heart almost burst with relief, and you nearly crumpled again, this time from sheer relief. “I… I’m glad you believe in me, sir.”

“Well, it wasn’t about _that_ as much as it was about the fact that your partner over there gave us an alibi for where you were last night, when it happened.”

“What?” You weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “…Really?”

So Washington recounted to you that Eggsy had immediately imposed himself on the meeting as soon as he had caught wind that you were considered a suspect in the murder. He had stood before both of his bosses and told them with a clear and unwavering gaze that you couldn’t have possibly done it, because you had been with him all night – not simply in his house, where he might have lost track of you when he fell asleep, but right beside him (and, they could assume, at various locations above and below him).

“And he was very persuasive,” Washington admitted with a genial shrug. “And very sure of you. Of course, we believed him. We’re still on the lookout, though.”

“What about Hayes?” you said, alarmed. “He didn’t escape or anything, did he?”

There was a strange glimmer in Washington’s eye at that, but whatever was going through his mind, he didn’t let you in on it. “No, he’s been secure this whole time. Ranting and raving about knowing _who did it._ But he doesn’t even know about what happened to the princess, so he’s probably just looking for some kind of deal. Besides, we already have more than enough compelling evidence to suggest he hasn’t done _this,_ at least.”

“I see.” Your heart sank; you really wanted it to be so simple, and done by someone already so reprehensible. You weren’t certain you could handle anymore betrayal at this point.

“We at least know he’s guilty of one thing. We managed to get the register for the poisons back up, and it’s what we suspected: Hayes checked out the exact same poison used in the assassination attempt against you, just days before you left. And since he was in London the same day you were poisoned, there’s physical evidence that he could have done it. I already spoke with Arthur and he confirms that the poison taken from the Kingsman stock was just a red herring; it was used in a mission in Laos. Which means it could have only come from us.”

“Jesus.” You shuddered, remembering how Hayes had visited you in the hospital and had even made a halfway decent attempt to demonstrate that he cared about your well-being. Had he just come to gloat, or to be disappointed that his plans hadn’t worked out as well as he’d hoped?

“And one more thing, Harrison – don’t worry about the whole switching thing,” he went on casually, as if he hadn’t just dropped bombshell after bombshell on you. “I’ve known about it for a while, actually. I’ve been in touch with Kinsey and she’s told me all about it. Doesn’t blame you at all. Though she’s much happier to be back as Lincoln.”

What?! But you’d been trying to play it so cool this whole time! Did that mean that Merlin knew the whole time, too?! Of course she’d let you sweat it out while having secretly informed Washington of the truth the whole time, leaving you to scramble to uphold the lie in front of the cousins…

Washington laughed and patted you on the shoulder again – nearly crushing you – before retreating. “Like I said; don’t worry. Good work so far, Harrison. We’ll have to look into upgrading your status when we get home.”

_Home._ That sent an uneasy wave of turmoil churning through your stomach. Not only did that mean you’d have to leave Eggsy, but it also meant that you’d have to return to the American Kingsman outfit, where all of your cohorts would be well aware of your successes, but you knew that they would probably focus on your failures: you letting yourself be poisoned, you letting your own teammate try to betray you, you failing to protect Gitta, you letting your best friend and colleague get strangled half to death. Actually, looking back, your failures _did_ seem to be much longer than your successes… You hoped you’d have enough time on the flight back to mold at least some of those into positives.

Alone, you wandered around, wondering if you could find Eggsy around here somewhere. Ordinarily you would have found Mathilde, but you’d already seen her – laid up in bed at the medical ward, not exactly responsive to your sentimental blathering. You went on a little ways, until a door to your left was thrown open and someone barked at you to get out of the way.

You wheeled backwards, watching with shock as four armed Kingsman agents escorted the remaining members of the royal family. Ninette and Heike walked in step closely behind the two agents in front, their faces identically ashen and serious; they didn’t even glance your way, and you weren’t sure if they had even seen you. Hendrick followed behind them, his head down and his feet flopping on the ground in boyish annoyance. It seemed strange to see only the three of them; you almost looked down past them, waiting for the severe young lady to follow behind them. Without her, you could already feel a deep wound within the family as they suffered without the glue that always held everything together. And more than that, they had quickly lost their remaining parental figure. 

You thought that Hendrick too would not notice you, but at the last moment he glanced over and locked eyes with you. You froze up. He’d be well within his rights to spit in your direction, you knew; you’d failed to keep his precious big sister safe. But as you cringed, waiting for the outburst, Hendrick instead broke rank and ran over to you, shouting, “Lincoln!”

“Hendrick!” you cried, ignoring the shouts of protest from the agents. Automatically you went to your knees and received the charging-hug he’d been preparing. It was so strange how just a few days could change everything; before the parade, you were sure that neither of you would have ever wanted to do some sweet embrace like this. “Hendrick, I am so, so sorry about Gitta. I should have been there – I should…”

He pulled away from you and looked away. The look of somber resignation in his eyes seemed far too old for a boy his age. “It’s fine,” he said insincerely, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. He seemed too tired for anger, for blame. More than anything, you could tell that all he wanted was Gitta back. “I want to go home.”

“You’ll be home before you know it, baby,” you assured him, though you felt as though you should have been doing more to comfort him; so you added, looking him right in the eye, “If you ever need anything from me, just call, and I’ll run right over and help, okay? Anytime, anywhere. You can count on me.”

That did seem to make him feel better, if only a little, and he seemed ready to actually say something nice and sentimental when a sharp bark came from behind the agents bringing up the rear. The agents parted and revealed the sauntering figure of Kinsey. She had the icy look of leadership in her eyes as she looked for the future king, her inertia not wobbling for a moment despite the heavy backpack she had slung over her shoulders.

“Why are we stopping? I…” She trailed off, spotting you with Hendrick. Her PR smile spread across her face. “Ah, I see. Hendrick, why don’t we get going? We can’t miss the plane.”

“I wanted to say goodbye to Lincoln,” he snapped, his usual arrogance restored.

Her smile tightened, and you could tell how badly she wanted to lose it. “Hendrick, I did tell you very nicely that _I_ am Lincoln. _She_ is Harrison.”

He gave her an almost comically disgusted look. “Then I wanted to say goodbye to Harrison, and you’re bothering me.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, patting him on the shoulder. Before you straightened, you added, “You can put her on the list.”

Hendrick grinned and returned to his sisters, much to the relief of Kinsey, who looked up at you and said, “I see you weren’t chosen for the security detail for the escort of the royal family.”

Other agents as well as young children were present, so you sadly realized that you couldn’t employ your usual heavy snark. So you said as politely as possible, “Thank you for reminding me. I seem to have misplaced my memory as well as my eyesight. I don’t know how I got on well without you.”

“ _Well_ is debatable, but as I’ve said, it could have been much worse.” She wheeled around to face the royal family again. “Now everybody – we have to hurry now. They’re expecting us at the airstrip…”

“It’s a private jet,” Hendrick complained. “They have to wait for me anyway.”

Kinsey looked ready to crack. “But timeliness is a virtue, of course. So let’s get going…!”

You watched as they disappeared from sight, then continued on your way. The amount of time since you’d last seen Eggsy seemed even longer than usual, eons even, and the aching loneliness of losing just about everyone you liked was weighing down on you like an anchor. But just before you began to start running like a nutjob, the doors at the end of the hallway – and apparently from heaven as well – opened, and Merlin and Eggsy appeared coming towards you.

Eggsy called your name, and though the distance between you wasn’t too large, he jogged to meet up with you anyway. Merlin was following behind him with a few files in his hand, and as soon as he was within arm’s reach of you, he handed them to you.

“Eggsy and I were having a chat, and he seemed very keen on making sure you go these,” he told you, as cheerfully as his usually serious tone could muster. “I consider it a good reward for a job well done. _Harrison._ ”

You reddened, fumbling to take the files as quickly as possible so you could retreat and dunk your head in a toilet somewhere. “Aha, well…! Yeah…”

“I’m quite serious. We’ll be looking forward to requesting you, should we ever need someone from the cousins on our side.”

“Really?” you burst. After what Eggsy had just told him and Washington – did that mean that Merlin was completely onboard for the jungle sex teambuilding exercises?! He’d been in your corner the whole time! “Thank you, sir!”

“Don’t mention it. And, I mean – _really,_ don’t mention it. I’ll guarantee they’ll be trying to shove Kinsey down our throats for months.”

Although you had been glad that Kinsey at least seemed to be more civil to you, you couldn’t help but feel a thrum of kinship knowing that Merlin had known her for about ten minutes and already seemed to be sick to death of her. “Safe with me.”

“Excellent. Harrison, Galahad, I’ll see you later.”

You and Eggsy watched until he was safely out of sight before you turned to him. Were the files especially heavy, or did the weight of everything seem to be bearing down on you especially hard at that moment? “Oh, God. I can’t believe I slept in today. I’m so goddamn tired already. I just saw Hendrick. I barely knew what to _say_ to him. I told him everything would be all right; how could I look into a little kid’s eyes and say that, after it was my fault his sister didn’t make it? Eggsy, I…”

“Hey.”

His voice was so low, so husky, and so relaxing that you nearly sank to the ground just hearing it. You were carrying the files with just one arm, and he took your free wrist in your hand, a move that guaranteed that your eyes would be lifted to his, and sure enough they were. Thus you were in a perfect position for him gently pulling you forward so that his mouth was against yours and it felt like home, pure relief, gentle pressure against a body that had felt war-torn in a matter of hours. When your eyes closed automatically they felt heavy, the way they do when you’re about to sleep, and suddenly you didn’t feel you had the strength to move anywhere until he pulled away from you. Before he could, your teeth sunk down automatically and caught his lower lip between them, and he sighed in contentment upon the release. 

“I already told you that you’ve been fantastic,” he said, and it was simultaneously torture and bliss to hold his gaze. “I haven’t changed my mind. I’m glad you’re here.”

Your cheeks burned. “I’m sure Merlin and Washington could think of another reason you’d say that, besides my competency, or whatever. I just can’t believe they had to find out like that.”

“Find out? Oh, Merlin probably knew already. Washington, though… I’m sure he’s glad you’ve been having a good fuckin’ time, eh?”

“Oh, God! You’re so fucking…” You searched for an appropriate English word. “ _…cheeky!_ ”

He laughed, passing you to continue along where Merlin had gone. “Can’t help it, yeah? I’d better head off; not finished with Merlin just yet. Have fun with your reading.”

You once more became aware of the stack of files in your arm, and you struggled to right them before the papers fell out. “Y-Yeah, of course. Thanks for getting them for me, Eggsy. Whatever they are.”

“Nah, I just like to make you owe me. What are partners for?”

_For fucking,_ you desperately wanted to yell; of course, it didn’t seem to be the right time to suggest frantic sex in a janitor’s closet but you figured that also needed the stress relief more than anything. You watched until he was out of sight and wondered if you should wander around until you found a chair to sit and read these files in; but something seemed to be urging you to read them as soon as possible, and you clumsily shuffled the files around until you could open the first one.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting to see – perhaps your face, perhaps your brother’s – but to your surprise it was Kinsey’s face staring up at you. Not the Kinsey you had just seen, but one younger and somewhat cuter, her eyes shiny with determination as she stared out at you from the photograph. Her hair was longer than you’d ever seen, and you wondered how old the photograph was. You pulled it out from its paperclip and flipped it over; it read, _Marguerite Kinsey, 17/2/10._

You swallowed sharply; that wasn’t long before your brother died. You replaced the photo, wondering where the file came from. You knew that the Americans had all their files digitized; but what would an American file be doing here? You flipped idly through Kinsey’s profile, then stopped; hastily, you flipped back to where her photo was and flipped it over again. _17/2/10._ No American scribbling on a photo would put the day first. You glanced through her profile, and sure enough, her date of birth was written the same way; and as you looked at her physical description, there was a listing for her _eye colour._

It was a British file! Why the fuck did the cousins have such a thick file on an American Kingsman agent? The agencies didn’t have any real relations with each other at the time, after all, so why did they feel the need to collect intelligence on an agent across the pond? And on paper, no less. Were they keeping files in case they needed dirt on someone? The branches were in the middle of a fight, after all. Perhaps the Brits liked to make sure that they still knew everything about everyone. Curiously, you leafed through the rest of it, wondering what else they could have on her.

You landed on a page that detailed a mission she’d been on in 2008, right when she was starting her career, you knew. You recognized the name of it, from when she’d bragged to you about how perfect her record was. She’d been on a mission to assassinate some sort of Saudi Arabian figure, and you remembered how she’d told you how flawless it had happened. But the summary you were reading told a different story: it claimed that she had assassinated the wrong man, but an Agent Kennedy had managed to correct her mistake by killing the correct man. Furthermore, Kennedy claimed responsibility for the error, and had gotten a minor punishment as a result. The entire incident was described by an agent Tristan, in 2012.

Though it seemed so long ago, that dream, those long-forgotten words seemed to come back to hit you: _She made mistakes when I knew her._ But it didn’t make any sense. Why would she lie to you about what she’d done? And why would the cousins have such a detailed outcome of it when you didn’t even know the real story? It made you uneasy, but you reasoned that it made sense: she had training wheels on, and your brother would have plausibly taken responsibility for her amateurism. Still, it seemed strange to have the image of her flawless performance crushed so strangely.

The next few missions seemed to have gone all right, but then there seemed to have been another gaff in 2009. Quite like your own experience, she had been in charge of protecting an asset, but the asset ended up dead after she failed to properly check a safe house. Again, Tristan had described the event in 2012. But you were familiar with it, too. She had been working with Agent Taylor, but you had worked with Taylor before, and she had never mentioned Kinsey being incompetent. In fact, from what you knew from that mission, it had been Taylor’s fault that the house hadn’t been secured. Or had she just covered up for Kinsey, too?

But why? Your head was spinning. If anything, Kingsman agents were better at finger-pointing than anyone else you knew. Certainly they wouldn’t ruin their own reputations for Kinsey, who had been a nobody at the time, but sure enough, a few pages later, you found another mission where your brother had taken responsibility for Kinsey’s mistake. It didn’t make any sense to you. Washington loved Kinsey. He certainly didn’t love anybody who fucked up as much as she had. True, he hadn’t been the head of Kingsman at that time, but certainly he would have heard about it. And there was no way she could have made it to be a top-tier and highly respected agent when she fumbled so many important plays. There was no possible way that all this could have gone unnoticed. Right?

There was a slim file in the stack, and you were about to skip past it until you read the date. Your blood went cold and your legs almost gave out underneath you. The date was exactly one week before you had learned that your brother had died. You were staring at what Eggsy had gotten for you, what he had made sure he wanted you to read: how your brother had died, circumstances that had never been revealed to you before no matter how much you begged.

Your fingers hesitated for a moment as you wondered if it was a good idea to find out the truth after so long, but the more impulsive part of you broke through the hesitation and ripped the file open so fast that loose papers fell on the floor around you. 

Once more, it was written from the perspective of a British agent. It started out exactly how Kinsey had described it: Lincoln and Kennedy chasing down Thawan to Cambodia. Kennedy had gotten captured during reconnaissance. You cringed, the thought of your brother hurt and in peril crossing your mind once more; you had to push it away, reminding yourself that it was in the past. And you gritted your teeth, remembering what Kinsey had told you about what happened: that she, in desperation, had called on the British agents for help, but they told her that they had been ordered to stand down and refused to help. Refused to help your brother, who had died because of it.

You looked ahead, hoping to see their cruel justification for leaving your brother to die. 

But you didn’t see it.

_Offer of backup transmitted on 14/7 at 14:24,_ a bullet point read. _Offer denied at 14:33._

You blinked, trying to make sense of the words, but found yourself unable. No; that had to be wrong. It was saying that they had tried to assist Kinsey in rescuing Kennedy, but she had denied them. That couldn’t be true. No – she had been the one looking for help.

_Second offer of backup transmitted on 15/7 at 6:00,_ another line told you. _Offer denied at 6:11._

You couldn’t believe what you were reading as you clenched the paper in your hands. Help was offered a third and fourth time, and then, near the bottom, it read, _Final offer of backup transmitted on 18/7 at 7:00. Offer denied at 7:05._ On the next line it said, _Agent Kennedy deceased – time of death, approx. 7:26._ Signed off neatly by Tristan once more.

You wondered if you should sit down, but you could not find the energy to do so. You kept rereading it, over and over again. Your brother had died in Cambodia on a sweltering July morning just before 7:30. Your brother had died waiting for help that had been offered five times, and denied five times.

_It doesn’t make sense._ You repeated it to yourself over and over. _It has to be a lie. It doesn’t make sense._ Kinsey would have never let your brother die if she could help it. She liked him. Loved him, even. Like you, he meant everything to her. Her mentor, her partner, maybe more, if you were ever told the truth. She would never let this happen. Never.

“No, that’s not right,” you murmured once or twice, gradually getting louder even though you were alone. “There’s a mistake here. That can’t be right.”

You looked back at the dates that Tristan had wrote. Going by chronology, he had written up the Cambodia incident first. He must have written the other ones retroactively, perhaps investigating Kinsey's past behavior. Certainly it would make sense, if an agent had acted as bizarrely as Kinsey had. But she couldn't have acted that way. It was against her nature. It went against everything that you knew about her.

It was such a shock that your brain was no longer functioning correctly. You were working on instinct, and your instinct told you not to go to either Merlin or Washington, both of whom were nearby. No; your instinct told you that the most logical thing would be to go to Kinsey and ask her the truth about what happened, ask her why she had lied to you the first time she had told you about what had happened with your brother. 

Your heart was racing so hard that you felt faint and the files fell from your hand, crashing to the ground at your feet. You stepped over them blindly, recalling where Kinsey had left with the royal family and other guards. Certainly they hadn’t left by now. If you hurried, you would be able to catch up with them. True, you could always wait until you saw her again, but you needed to know as soon as possible. It couldn’t wait.

As you left you passed Lancelot, who turned to watch you go after she had seen a strange expression on your face. She asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” you told her automatically. “I have to go to see Kinsey.”

Roxy wanted to tell you that there was really no point, that even if she wasn’t long gone she’d be busy with the royal family, but there seemed to be an impossible will within you and the words caught in her throat as she watched you leave. She couldn’t understand why it seemed so crucial to look at you in that moment, but once you were out of sight she continued on as if nothing had happened.

* * *

When Eggsy returned to meet with Merlin, he found Washington there with him. The two of them were standing in front of a video screen, reviewing some rather grainy footage, though not so grainy that Eggsy failed to recognize the figure featured therein. It was Danson Hayes, standing in front of a closed door not unlike the ones that Eggsy had seen in Richmond Valentine’s prison. He was standing with someone whose back was turned to the camera, someone that he couldn’t recognize.

“Oh, hello, Eggsy,” Merlin said, turning briefly to him. “We were just reviewing some footage on our friend Hayes.”

“Uh huh. Where’s the fucker now?”

“Roosevelt is being moved to a secure facility,” Washington supplied, which Eggsy supposed was a euphemism for a torture chamber. “Lincoln informed me that Hayes was acting irrationally, and that we should look closer into his behavior. He’s complaining that Harrison framed him, that he never used poison, so he wouldn’t have been on the register… So I thought I might see how he was acting from footage, for shits and gigs.”

Eggsy’s gaze shifted over to the video that was playing. The Hayes on the video looked uncomfortable, folding his arms repeatedly and shuffling his feet from side to side.

“It’s not right,” he was telling the woman beside him. For once his rough and permanently annoyed tone had softened to something resembling concern. “I’m sure she’s learned her lesson by now.”

“No,” the woman said, and Eggsy immediately recognized that high and clear voice, a voice like ice breaking on stone. “She hasn’t learned anything. That’s why she’s in there.” She shuddered. “Pathetic.”

“I’m not arguing that she’s not pathetic. But she needs help, not to be locked up.”

Unease lurched through Eggsy’s stomach; he knew with sickening certainty who was going to be on the other side of the door. As if on cue, a strained and eerie cry grew loud enough to be heard, but he didn’t seem to recognize it; it didn’t sound quite human, almost a ghost’s voice, saying, _I don’t want to be alone… It’s too hard to be alone…_

“I’m calling Washington,” Hayes said hastily. “I’m recommending she get taken out.”

Kinsey turned towards him, and Eggsy could feel her glare even through the safety of the screen that divided them. “You’re not going to do that, Roosevelt. I’m trying to train her. You are _not_ going to interfere with my training. Do you understand me?”

Hayes shied away immediately, and the argument was over like that; the tape, however, went on for another few minutes after Hayes left, Kinsey watching the door silently until she too turned to leave. After the tape ended, Washington shook his head, a bark of ironic laughter leaving him. Merlin was expressionless as usual, but Eggsy could discern a slight furrow of the brow, as if he were stuffing the incident in an already-full catalog.

“That’s Kinsey,” Washington conceded, kicking the ground. “Hardass since the day we got her. And has to have her way. Makes sense, though. Vice president’s niece – used to getting it.”

Eggsy stopped dead, turning to him. “She’s the fucking _vice president’s_ niece?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, not the same one we have now, but same difference. Made everyone nervous, when she first joined. Even _me._ Everyone stepped on eggshells around her. Afraid of looking back around her, I guess. Or making her look bad. But it all worked out in the end; she’s my best agent.”

“Right.” But Eggsy felt less than convinced, looking back at the screen. Something was off: Hayes hadn’t been an asshole, and Kinsey, apparently the consummate professional, had made a strangely irrational, almost emotional, move. Suddenly a thought struck him – the reason he had come to see Merlin in the first place. “Why did you suspect her?”

“Hm?” Merlin turned to him again.

“Harrison.” Anger was rising in his chest, yet his hands felt oddly numb. “When Gitta was killed, you suspected Harrison. I was gone, too. And you didn’t suspect me.”

For a moment a rare troubled look passed in front of Merlin’s usually stoic eyes, but was, as usual, smothered by the English indifference. “That’s nothing you need to be concerning yourself with, Eggsy. It’s under investigation.”

His first chav impulse was to argue, to fight, especially when it came to your honor that he’d already defended. “Because you were looking for a woman. Not a man. I’ve seen those police dramas, yeah? You must have been able to tell, with the bruises. Is that it?”

Merlin had nothing to say to that, which was confirmation enough. “As I said. It’s under investigation.”

“And you’ve got another fucking female agent here. Aren’t you going to investigate _her?_ ”

Washington, huge as he was, was nevertheless agile enough to get in front of him in the blink of an eye. He towered over him, every inch of him taut with tension, but there was the usual grin on his face when he said, “I think you might be implying that Kinsey is involved in this somehow, because you would never implicate your friend Lancelot. So if that was an implication, as I’ve thought, I don’t think I heard it, and I don’t think I’d like clarification.”

“Washington,” Merlin broke in. “I don’t quite like you speaking to my agent that way. Not at my headquarters.”

“Well, it’s our headquarters now, isn’t it? So I think I have at least some right.”

Eggsy was prone to impulse, but he wasn’t so impulsive that he thought this to be the hill to die on – or more specifically, a reason to destroy the British-American relations, right after he spent the whole mission proving that they were sound. He backed away, averting his gaze as he clenched his fist. “No. You’re right. Sorry, mate. Forget I said anything; not my place.”

Everything he said was meant to be different ways to say _fuck you,_ but thankfully neither Washington nor Merlin seemed to notice. He turned on his heel and left, increasingly wondering where you were and what you were doing; there seemed to be an incredible need to run to you and tell you everything that he was suspecting.

He went down the hall and stopped when he saw Roxy stooped and cleaning up a mess of papers that was on the floor. Only when he saw her did he realize that he was running, and he slowed down to a stop in front of her. “What’s up, Rox?”

“Oh – nothing. Looks like someone just dropped a bunch of files and didn’t feel like cleaning it up, eh?” She frowned, straightening and shuffling them together. “Something about a _Marguerite Kinsey._ ”

The files that Eggsy had gotten for you. Surely you must have had good reason for abandoning them so hastily, right? “I gave those to Harrison.”

“Well, I’m not sure why she dropped them. I just saw her a few minutes ago, actually.”

“You did? Where was she going?”

Roxy was caught off-guard by the urgency in his tone, but she told him, “She had something she needed to tell Kinsey, so she just ran to cut them off at the plane. Bad luck, though. I heard her friend had just woken up.”

“Thanks, Rox. You’re a lifesaver.” Except he felt more stressed than ever, torn between running to two places. But his first impulse was going to Mathilde, and he turned to rush to the medical center.

A nurse tried to bar him from entry, telling him, “She’s still not well, and she’s not speaking. I really don’t think you should – ” But he was already past her. He only needed a moment.

Mathilde looked so different in the hospital bed, so strange without her usual boundless feminine vitality. She was without her eyepatch and an empty socket disappeared into her handsome face, but the other dark eye was open to a slit and watched him with fatigue as he sat down in the chair beside her and scooted in close.

“Mathilde,” he said, resisting the impulse to shake her, instead taking her wrist in his hand. “Mathilde, can you hear me?”

Her eye narrowed a little, as if annoyed by the stupidity of the question, and she nodded faintly. The mere action seemed to tire her out and she swallowed sharply, the dark dappling on her neck rising and falling with the action.

Blood was pounding in his ears and it was an effort to think straight. He could only think of you in potential peril, and Hendrick and Heike and Ninette, too. There seemed to be no time in the day and yet the moments that passed like this felt like hours, like he was supposed to have figured it out already. “Do you remember who did this to you?”

Fire burned in the obsidian depth of her eye and she mouth fell open on instinct, but no matter how much she wanted to summon her voice, nothing came out but a soft, raspy noise. Frustrated, she shut it again and nodded again.

Every part of his body seemed poised, tensed. He leaned forward again, wanting to frame it as carefully as calmly as possible, but it all got fucked and the words practically exploded from when he asked, “Was it Kinsey?”

He was getting too riled and the nurse flew back over to him, tugging insistently at his arm, but he couldn’t budge even if he wanted to. “Sir, I am _insisting_ that you – ”

“Just give me a fucking _second_ , will you?!”

He had glanced away for just a second to pull away from her, and as soon as his eyes snapped back to Mathilde, he found her nodding imperceptibly. Her gaze had lost the intensity it’d had before, cooled coals in a dead fire, and she looked out somewhere past the ceiling.

His grip tightened on her wrist without meaning to, and when she winced he withdrew his hand. He sprang up from the chair so violently it was thrown back, and the nurse shied away, giving up. He kept turning back and forth towards the door, to where you had already left, but there still seemed to be a question on his mind that needed answering, one that stood apart from a dozen similar questions that he supposed he could always beat out of Kinsey; he asked her, without even thinking, “Can I kill her?”

Mathilde had strength in her for just one more answer, and she gave it to him. He turned on his heel and left the room, his pace ramping up once more to a run, then to a sprint once he reminded himself where you were, and who you were with. On the way back he passed Roxy once more. She had evidently just finished getting all the papers together again, and looked up in surprise to see his frantic momentum; everyone today seemed to be moving strangely, acting strangely, speaking strangely. She asked, “Is everything all right?”

“No,” Eggsy answered immediately. He barely slowed to pass her. “Get Merlin to get some fucking agents to Hendrick’s plane.”

“What? Why?” Bewildered, when he didn’t stop to answer, she called out, “Why don’t you just ask him yourself?”

“No fucking _time!_ ” And then he disappeared out the door.

It was a bizarre request, and she wondered how she was supposed to convince Merlin to do it when neither of them had any idea why, but she supposed that it couldn’t hurt to try, especially given your and Eggsy’s bizarre behavior related to it. At any rate, it would have helped to at least know what was going on, but there seemed to be no going back now.


	23. From America with Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you find a few more things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after 900 years, i have finally imported all of this goddamn story. the rest i still have to write both here and over there
> 
> _enough effort for today, lemme skip studying for finals_

_**Manner #12** — Be appreciative and say "thank you" for any gift you receive._

You weren’t entirely sure what you were expecting to happen once you met up with Kinsey. As you let the company car drive recklessly and breakneck through the streets of London to the distance where Hendrick’s private plane was waiting, you went through a hundred different variations of how the encounter would go. Sometimes you spoke to her calmly, knowing that the agents and minors were around, and other times you went up screaming like some kind of deranged owl, latching onto her shirt and shaking her around violently. And other times you would let her admit it, let her sweat as you secretly knew exactly what had happened that day.

All of these various situations seemed to end with you pulling a gun and demanding to know why she had let your beloved big brother and protector and friend die, so you pushed it all away and decided you would just see how it all played out. No matter what, though – you were going to get your answers. You were going to figure out just what possessed her to ignore all avenues for help. And hopefully you’d be able to do that without screaming bloody, incoherent murder and waving a gun around, or capping off the encounter with a bullet in Kinsey’s brain.

You reached the airstrip in good time, and you stepped out, surveying the area. Nothing but grassland around you for what seemed like miles, or kilometers, but whatever. Remote, you reasoned, in case you really did accidentally put a bullet in her brain, but again you reminded yourself that you were the far more stable one between the two of you. Who knows? There could have been a totally normal, reasonable, unexceptional reason for why Kinsey had refused help on the day of your brother’s death. For all you knew, the offers of help had never gone through, and she really had considered herself alone.

Yes. You took a deep breath, approaching the plane. That seemed like a reasonable explanation. Everyone won, except for your brother: the British cousins had tried their best, and Kinsey had been ignorant to the help she could have been receiving. And that was the positive thought that was going through your mind as you slipped a little going up the stairs to the plane.

You frowned, knowing that you were definitely wearing non-slip shoes; you had gotten into the habit ever since your restaurant days, and had demanded all your Kingsman shoes be outfitted to reflect this. You looked down, confused and sure you didn’t remember seeing anything strange – and it was then that you saw the red.

Blood was dripping down from one step to another, puddling where your foot was. On instinct you lurched back, disgusted, nearly losing your balance on the steps, and you righted yourself right before you threatened to plummet off. Blood, blood; that was definitely blood. Your head cleared and you peered closer at the ground below the steps. Your stomach dropped as the blood spatter you hadn’t noticed before stood out in the harsh sunlight, and the realization nearly made you throw up: somehow had died here.

_But who?_ None of it was falling into place. You did not know who Kinsey truly was, and therefore it could simply not be true that she would have killed someone here. Immediately your mind went into panic mode: had something happened to Kinsey, or one of the children? Had Kinsey been right all along, and there was a faction of the cousins who were really out to get her and the family? Or had a bunch of assassins been lying in wait, and had sprung upon them to finally assassinate the family? Your protective instincts flared up and you drew your gun, ascending the rest of the steps with your heart in your throat. It was deathly quiet, and you figured that if it were really this quiet, then – they must have been successful, and everyone was dead!

Such fears were alleviated somewhat when you entered the plane and heard the soft whispering of a woman. You didn’t recognize it at first; was it one of the twins? You were about to step out into the aisle to investigate when your foot hit something – too soft to be part of the plane, and you looked down to find that what you had assumed to be the ground in front of you was a body, a body with clothing colored so similarly to the airplane carpet that you hadn’t even noticed them at first.

You clapped a hand over your mouth to abate a gasp of shock, and stooped down to investigate. A stewardess, you recognized, killed with one shot to the head. Though this wasn’t a new sight for you at all, your stomach turned, and you realized that you may very well be turning the corner to a massacre. But if it was, then – the person responsible was still alive, and you could hear her, and you had to be ready.

You turned the corner with your gun drawn, but it was to no avail. You came face-to-face with Kinsey, who already had her gun drawn on you. The usual impatient look was in her eyes, and her voice was as tough as usual when she commanded, “Put the gun down, Harrison, or I’ll shoot you too.”

Now, keep in mind that you did not know what Eggsy knew, and as such you were completely unprepared for your pseudo-mentor to appear with not only a gun drawn but an explicit admittance that she had already shot someone, presumably the young hostess at your feet. You were too shocked to be annoyed by the usual, film-ish standoff where two people of equal level could theoretically be at a stalemate, but one person arbitrarily decides who makes the other put the gun down, and you – put the gun down!

“Hands in the air,” Kinsey went on. You noticed that something big and complex-looking was sitting at her feet, but your eyes were drawn back up to her face when she sighed. “For God’s sake, Harrison, why are you here? I thought you’d be back at headquarters. Believe it or not, I actually didn’t want you around for this. I was finished with you.”

It occurred to you that you were close enough to the door to where you could throw yourself out and avoid getting shot, but the shock you had experienced earlier had dissipated into a massive and fuming rage, and you wanted nothing more than to sit there until you could find a good opportunity to unleash some kind of revenge. That, and you still did not know what had happened to the children, and you very much wanted to find out.

With a sigh, you dropped your gun and complied, putting your hands in the air. “I wanted to talk to you about something. But I’m guessing you’re a little busy with something.” You wanted to make it sound cool and composed, but you were both seething with rage and massively concerned and as a result your voice was high and tight and dry. You hoped that you’d be able to be at least a little badass in the coming few minutes, because from the looks of it, you’d need to.

“You caught me,” Kinsey assented. “Now that you’re here – I suppose I can allow you to come over and see what’s going on. It’s too late for you to stop anything, that is.”

That wasn’t exactly the most upbeat and positive thing to hear, you’d admit, but you steeled yourself; there had to be more to it than this. And as you came closer to her, you realized that the lump that had been sitting at her feet was a bomb, and a complicated one at that. Her discarded backpack was right behind her, and you guessed with some nausea that she had been carrying it around all through headquarters, waiting for the right moment to use it.

Your eyes swept over the seats that lined the aisles, and to both your relief and horror, you saw that three of them were occupied: Hendrick and the twins were slumped over in them, tied up with heavy bonds to the seats. By the looks of it, they’d been drugged, and in a moment her plan was clear to you: she was going to bomb the plane with them on it, and no hope to escape, to complete whatever coup she’d been trying to push. A violent jolt of fierce protectiveness raced through you, and despite the fact that Kinsey still had a gun trained on you, you had it in mind to cross over to her and strangle her with your bare hands.

_Strangling._ A sick feeling washed through you, and once more a murderous urge coursed through you. “It must have been you, then. If you’re the one who wanted to kill the royal family, it must have been you who strangled Mathilde. Right?”

Kinsey looked a little irritated at your continued pestering, but she decided to humor you, squatting down beside the bomb. She wasn’t even looking at you anymore, her eyes trained on the machinery. “I am not proud to admit it, Harrison, but I did indeed get a bit carried away. I was just so – frustrated. The way you made it sound, I thought that the whole family would be there. Not just the girl. She didn’t matter as much. I'm glad I didn't kill him there, because I was waiting to put this in motion. It’s Hendrick I needed to kill, and – well, it’s not important. I knew she wouldn’t regain consciousness in time to stop this.”

“And what’s _this_ supposed to be?” You dropped your hands to fists at your side. If you killed her now, you wouldn’t understand any of it. “You’re a Kingsman agent, Kinsey! One of the best fucking ones around! Why the fuck would you want to _do_ this? Killing a bunch of innocent kids? What the _fuck?_ ”

Her eyes snapped up to you, an authoritative blaze behind them. “I understand that this is a highly emotional situation for you, Harrison, but I still ask that you refrain from swearing. It really is unbecoming, given the gravity of the situation.”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?!” Your outburst was so violent that she lifted the gun again, but it mattered little, since you threw your hands up in disgust. “You’re the most dedicated person I know, Kinsey. Why the fuck are you suddenly a villain? Working for the goddamn enemy?”

“They are _not_ the enemy.” Her eyes were burning as she stood up again, but she was evidently not confident enough to let you get too close, because she took a step back to regain the distance between you she’d lost when you’d stepped forward. Waving a hand at the unconscious royal family, she snapped, “ _They_ are the enemies, Harrison. You might think they’re just children, but think about where they came from. A bunch of inbred Scandinavians, running their nation to the ground. The same failing monarchy that’s existed for hundreds of years, and it could have been ended with the Valentine incident, but no – of course, _they_ survived. So then what? A nation that has the _potential_ to be great, run into the ground by a petulant, sickly child?” She shook her head. “No. I could never hate western civilization enough to see that happen.”

You were staring at her, dumbfounded; you understood every word she said, as in, you literally understood what the words meant. But you could never look at someone like Gitta, or the twins, or Hendrick – a brat, to be sure, but an innocent brat – and want him dead for whatever greater good you might cook up in your head.

When you didn’t fervently respond, Kinsey abandoned her mission of distance and took a step closer to you, and for a rare moment, she smiled so brightly that she seemed five years younger. “I’m renovating the system, Harrison, don’t you get it? Sometimes such a thing takes time – years, decades even, and sometimes it takes a second with a hammer. Of course, I’m an authoritarian through-and-through, so that’s why I wanted to align with a military coup, but you can get my meaning.” She laughed, a bright and hectic noise that you had never heard from her. “You see it now, right? You were wrong the whole time! I’m the good guy, Harrison!”

With disbelief, you realized that she actually and genuinely meant every single word she said, and you closed your eyes, trying to keep your composure. “I guess the other agents felt the hammer too, didn’t they?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “They got in the way, as you could probably guess. It doesn’t matter. It’ll look like they died in the explosion, either way.”

“Well, I’m not gonna make you monologue, because this seems pretty cut-and-dry. You’re going to make the assassination attempt a success, and a lot more believable that it was done by a terrorist and not a rogue agent.” You looked away in disgust. “I just didn’t honestly believe that you roped Hayes into it, too.”

“Roosevelt?” She looked genuinely confused. “Oh, no… He was just collateral. But a very useful idiot. I thought he'd name me for sure when he saw me in the crowd at the parade bombing, but I guess not. Before we even left, I knew that I’d have to try to get you out of the way somehow. You had such a stringent breakfast routine – it was easy to get it in there somehow. I’ll say, it was much easier to do when I wasn’t around, and you didn’t see it coming. The plan was always to bring him and Adams in early, so that it could look like he was the one that poisoned you. I’ll admit, a bit rushed, because who would sign his own name in the register for such a thing…? But it was a risk I was willing to take, and they believed me.”

“So you must not have meant to kill me,” you realized, a brief maybe-hope dawning within you. “You’ve worked with me long enough to know what I’m immune to. You were just trying to hospitalize me.”

It was a flattering depiction, you’d admit, but even after everything, that was part of you that wanted to believe that it was at least a little true. But Kinsey’s brows shot up in surprise, and her expression crumpled into a look that was half-pitying, half-impatient, her look when you weren’t catching on quickly enough.

“Oh, no,” she put in quickly. “I definitely wanted to kill you. I had no idea – it was a shot in the dark, but I was hoping that there was so much in there that it’d get past whatever immunity you had. Fair justice, I’d say, for poisoning me at the start of this whole thing.”

“But, you…” Your mind was whirling, not quite working correctly in this time of mass stress. You had worked with her for years, after all, and you just could not accept that this was what she was telling you. “But you – you said that you were proud of me.”

Why had those words meant so much to you? Because she had bullied you for all those years, treated you like dirt, implied that you would never really be a _good_ agent – or because she was all that was left of your brother’s connections, and if she said that she was proud, that your brother would have been proud… then it all would have been worth it, right? But, no, there was no cruelty in her eyes when she let out a short bark of laughter, just surprised incredulity that you said such a thing, that you had believed such a thing.

“Oh, no. Of course, you understand that that was a lie, Harrison, to relax you. When I came to Galahad’s house, it was to kill him. An impulsive decision, but you… I didn’t expect to see you there. Actually, that’s what surprised me. You told me you were going back to the safe house, so I assumed that you were… In that way I’d hoped that you could have taken the blame for that girl’s death. Only other woman on hand besides Lancelot who would have put her hands on those necks. But it doesn’t matter now. Even if you were a bit disappointing.”

Oddly enough, it was that which put you over the edge. For a brief moment, you had given her the benefit of the doubt, that perhaps she wasn’t as devious as you’d suspected, and once more she had let you down… She had revealed that she had tried to kill or already killed, in no particular order: you; your best friend; a child; more children. But there was one more specter on that list that you hadn’t gotten to, and you were so practically spitting with rage that you had to bring him out. You spat, “Fitting, then. You’ve already killed one sibling, now you’re onto the other.”

Kinsey had been reveling in having the upper hand, but her self-confident smile dimmed somewhat at your words. “What did you say?”

“I said, Kinsey,” your words coming out through gritted teeth, “that you killed my brother, and you’re going to complete it by killing me. Or did you not think I’d ever find out about what really happened?”

Long seconds passed. Her jaw was slack, her eyes wide and round, her knuckles white on her handgun. To you, her voice had always had the high and clear quality of splintering glass, and her next words crashed inelegantly, like a scorned lover tossing glassware out onto the street. “You mean – you think that I – with Kennedy? You think… You actually believe… I can’t…”

In her shock she dropped her gun away from you, and you knew you had her. Eggsy had learned early on that you never had less than five weapons on you at a time, and though Kinsey had forgotten it in her panic, you certainly hadn’t: in a flash you’d retrieved another handgun, but due to your sudden temper, you had trouble aiming it anywhere but at her face.

“You killed him,” you spat. “You’re a fucking liar. The cousins were willing to help him. I _read_ the files. You let him die. For what? So he couldn’t ever tell the truth about how you fucked up some of your most important missions? Is _that_ it?”

“No.”

The word came out in such a shocked, strangled, scandalized fashion that for a moment it seemed like she’d seen a ghost. Her eyes were as big as an owl’s, but they seemed sightless, not quite looking around as they rolled in terror. She was as pale as death and a slim hand went up to cup her own cheek. In that moment you didn’t recognize her, didn’t recognize this strange antithesis of the Marguerite Kinsey that you knew and had, for a short while, admired. 

“No,” she went on, as if the very last thing she wanted to do was make sure you knew what her side of the story was. “No, that’s not right… Not right at all… What I said, it was true. His getting captured was an accident. But he did it to save me. Of course I had to save him back. Couldn’t have been anyone else. All those times that Kennedy saved me, took the blame – it was my moment of glory, don’t you see? It was supposed to be. Saving him. Someone I loved. Wouldn’t you do _anything,_ to save someone you love?”

“But you didn’t,” you said through your teeth. “You could have saved him. Swallowing your pride and asking for help. You didn’t. You lied, just like how you lied on all those other missions, because you’re a goddamn spoiled brat.”

“You don’t understand anything.” Kinsey crumpled onto the floor next to the bomb, her whole body tensed and wired. “No; I was supposed to save him. I should have been able to do it. Any other agent could have. Don’t you see – all the training of done, the improvements I’ve made – it was all to atone? But the things they said…” She lost her gun and threw an arm over her abdomen, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. “ _Pregnancy brain,_ they called it… No, totally a lie… Just a rumor… It wouldn’t – no, it was a lie, you see…”

“But Washington,” you pressed, wanting to remain deaf towards what she had just told you, something that might have put you off-balance. “He would have never let you work again, after that.”

“You weren’t here when it happened. Our Washington was still Eisenhower at the time. It was the old one, the old man… Would have rather eaten himself than ask the cousins what really happened… And our Washington didn’t bother to ask, didn’t care… Old news by then…”

She was shaking her head, overwhelmed by the memory. You were shaking, too; shaking with rage, rage at your brother being known as _old news,_ rage that the senseless nature of it all was truly as senseless as you’d believed it to be. Your brother really had died for nothing, nothing at all, just a girl who had gotten carried away by her own fantasies of what she was supposed to be. Someone overwhelmed by emotions, someone who hadn’t thought clearly.

Yes – thinking clearly. It was time that you started to do that again.

“Why do you think I hate it all?” she was going on, although you were hardly listening at this point. “The system… Kennedy… He died over something about some stupid girl, stupid diplomat’s daughter… How many girls are trafficked, and we go after someone’s daughter? The system is _broken,_ Harrison… All we do is protect the privileged. What we need is – ”

“I need you to shut the fuck up for a second,” you cut in abruptly, squatting down beside the bomb. “I don’t need you going on about that, when you’re the niece of the vice president. No – Kinsey, you’re going to do something useful.”

“What?” After the spastic tirade, she was deflated, looking at you with shock that you were responding so little.

Your brother had died because of a stupid reason, but the least you could do was not continue into a parade of stupid reasons. You had to remember who you were protecting, and that was the royal family, who had been waiting with such drugged patience as you and Kinsey had hashed it out earlier. No – you wouldn’t kill Kinsey, even if you wanted to. You weren’t going to get carried away with grandiose emotion like she had, thinking you could make all the calls. You were going to be the victor, not by killing her, but by besting where she had failed: saving someone.

“Where’s the timer on this thing?” you demanded, trying to turn it around while keeping her in your sights. “How much time did you put on it?”

“Well, I was actually hoping on making a minimum safe distance, so obviously enough for us to talk like this.”

You gave her such a fierce, practiced Kinsey-look that even she shrank back. “You’re not helping.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m the one who wants to assassinate them, after all.”

“You’re actually going to do something right, you son of a bitch.” Not the correct term, you realized after you said it, but you were on a roll and you carried on. “My brother died because of you. No way around it. But for some stupid reason, he always believed in you. He never would have covered for you otherwise. And because of him, you got where you are today. He died, and you lived. So you’re going to pay him back by fixing this.”

“Or what? You’re going to shoot me in the head?”

“I can think of a couple other places I can start with before that, actually.” Damn, you were getting good. Obviously you should have held her at gunpoint more often. “I saw some television show that said all bombs have off switches. Where’s the off switch?”

You were looking at the bomb as you said that, so when a moment of silence passed, you were bemused. You looked up to see Kinsey blushing a bit, perhaps embarrassed, and she put a hand over her mouth as she laughed a little.

“That’s what made it so good,” she said in a low voice, as if she was conspiring with you. “There’s nothing like that on this, Harrison. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop until it blows. That way nothing could go wrong. I mean – I started it before you even got here, but I put a timer on it so that it could cause some collateral damage in case other Kingsman agents show up. I’m very sorry, but your demands about putting all the pieces together really did you more harm than good this time, because it’s not like the timer stopped running down.”

“Oh, my God, you’re such a pain in the ass.” You could feel a stress headache coming on and you resisted the urge to shoot her just as a pick-me-up.

She looked rather smugly pleased with herself at how well everything had turned out for her, and you were desperate to erase it. “I could always just untie the royal family. Get them out before the bomb explodes.”

“You can’t. I brought the strongest bonds that Kingsman had to offer, and I got rid of all of the keys. You’d sooner have to rip the seat out from the plane, and there won’t be enough time to save all of them for that.”

“Okay, fuck. I’ll call Kingsman and have them try to do something with it. Surely they have a disposal squad or something for this.”

“Not enough time, Harrison, or were you weren’t listening? You’re lucky if you have ten minutes left on this. They’re farther than ten minutes away, even if they speed.”

“Okay, okay, shut up.” A revelation occurred to you. “It’s compact and transportable enough that it can be carried, right? And you’re just a bird. That’s how you got it here. That’s it. I’ll just carry it outside and drop it off and run.”

“My God, you’re really not thinking clearly. I carried part of it with me, and had the rest of the materials ready on the plane. It’s at least twice as heavy as when I brought it, and you won’t be able to carry that.”

“Really not liking your input.” The headache was still threatening to come on. No, no – you had to do this, you had to do it. You were not going to fail, not with so much on the line. And you weren’t going to die, either. Mathilde was waiting for you, and Washington, and Merlin, and – Eggsy, oh, of course Eggsy was waiting for you. And Eggsy had saved the world once already. A small Scandinavian country should be well within your saving-purview. You could do it. Yes – you could do it.

You had prayed to various gods for another revelation, and someone must have heard you, because it came. “No. You’re Marguerite Kinsey. Agent Lincoln. You always have a backup plan, don’t you? A way out of it. It wouldn’t be efficient otherwise. Because this wasn’t just about killing them. You could have just used bullets for that. Gitta was good enough, but not this. To kill Hendrick, you needed something loud. Something everyone would see. And if it didn’t go exactly to plan, you wouldn’t want it.”

Her eyes narrowed a little, but she nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right.”

“So you must have had a fallback. In case you couldn’t get everything together in time. A way out, a cheat. You were lying, and you definitely have a way to stop the bomb, in case not everything went according to plan. Isn’t that right?” Your heartbeat was quickening with your confidence. “At the very least, you can call headquarters and explain everything that you’ve done. You’ll confess, and they’ll work something out. They have more heads to put together than just me on my own here. And you’ll get it all sorted.”

To your extreme relief, she nodded slowly. “You’re right, Harrison. I could call, and get something figured out. It’s not impossible to stop this business.” She looked up at you. “But why are you doing this? Why didn’t you just kill me right out?”

“God, weren’t you listening?” It wasn’t really the time for repeating yourself, but you went ahead anyway. “I’m giving you another chance. A chance to make it right. For my brother, or because I’m holding you at gunpoint – it doesn’t matter. You could redeem yourself, Kinsey. Even just a little bit. You still can.” Because wasn’t that what your brother had believed, for all that time? That there was hope left for Marguerite Kinsey?

She had nothing to say to that. Satisfied that she was done talking for at least one second, you turned your attention back to the bomb, which of course meant that you put your handgun aside, for just a moment. “Good. Okay, tell me all about this bomb. What are our options?”

You had not noticed Kinsey’s hand moving on the other side of the bomb, where such a movement would be hidden, and truth be told you weren’t caring very much about her. She said, “Harrison?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, you can thank me when we’re done with this. Now, about the bomb.”

Kinsey said your name again, but this time she did not say your codename. For the first time since you’d met her, she said your first name, and that alone made you look up in surprise to see that she was holding a gun again. You hadn’t noticed, because she hadn’t been pointing it at you; she was pointing it below her right ear.

Time was frozen in a state of suspended shock, and she smiled and said, once more, “Thank you.”

It would have required inhuman speed to lunge and stop her before she had time to pull the trigger, and though you knew you didn’t have that, you attempted it anyway. But it seemed to be fitting that, in regards to a woman who already considered you a disappointment, such an attempt would be the final entry in a list of failures.


	24. Ruined, FOREVER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more things blow up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also aka in which i forgot i had this chapter done for literal months and didn't post it here... sob

_**Manner #1** – When asking for something, say "Please."_

You, who always made sure to have proper ear protection on hand, had almost forgotten how loud gunshots were, and the closed environment only made it worse. As such your first reaction to Kinsey’s suicide was disorientation, a clamor in your ears as you struggled to right yourself; your first instinct was to flinch backwards and you had fallen back on the aisle as a result.

At first you could not believe that she was dead, not because you didn’t have the gruesome spectacle in front of you, but because you could have sworn that you were hearing a human voice. Confused, and your ears still ringing, you looked over at the royal family, wondering if the muffled words were coming from them. But, no, they were still unconscious, not even stirred by the ear-splitting quality of the gunshot, and so you were bemused until someone grabbed you from behind and the voice was very close to your ear.

“What!” You did not realize that your hands were shaking, and so you could only clumsily fumble for your gun, but fortunately you weren’t able to get it into your hands before you realized that it was Eggsy behind you. 

He seemed to be yelling something at you, the words too vague and faraway for you to understand at first, but you managed to catch the end: “…the fuck happened _here?_ ”

“Holy fuck,” was all you could manage after such a scene. Your brain seemed to be only taking in as little sensory information as possible in order to stop you from having a nervous breakdown, which, though a wise move, was what made you abruptly say, “Where the fuck did _you_ come from?” when a slew of other remarks might have been more pressing.

“I was on the stairs when I heard the gunshot,” he told you, his brow creasing as he squatted beside you and made sure that you were uninjured. “Gave me a bit of a fucking scare. _Fuck_ , you need to stop making me think you’re dead.”

“Okay, that time was definitely not my fault…”

Then your plodding sensory intake allowed you to process the fact that someone had committed suicide just a moment earlier. Eggsy, momentarily engrossed with ensuring that you were indeed fine, had mostly failed his own spot check, but you finally looked across and remembered that Kinsey was dead and her bomb was still dutifully ticking away.

“Holy shit!” You staggered over the bomb to look at Kinsey, or rather, what was left of her to look at. The stun from her actions had worn off and your body was now catching up to the consequences, and as such you had no time to prepare yourself against vomiting on top of her corpse, which you did.

“I promise I don’t normally do that,” you said queasily, leaning back on your heels. Your energy seemed to drain with the action; you felt ready to accept whatever fate was about to happen. “Just when we’re all about to die.”

“We’re not gonna die, mate,” Eggsy assured you, though he admittedly did not know what the details were. “Fill me in. I just see a dead fucker on the floor.”

“Uh: Kinsey killed my brother inadvertently, tried to kill me, killed Gitta, nearly killed Mathilde, framed Hayes, killed some of your coworkers and is now about to kill us all after she just killed herself.” That seemed to sum it up nicely. “Oh, and there’s a bomb she walked in here and I have no idea how much time’s left on it and that’s kind of giving me anxiety.”

Well, good to know that in the face of imminent death, your faculties were still healthy enough to allow you some sarcasm. 

“Okay. Okay. I see the family’s all here. I’m guessing you can’t get them out, or you would have done it already.”

“Right you are. I…” You stopped to bite back another gag when your gaze swept against Kinsey’s ruined form once more. “Yeah, can’t get them out. God, Eggsy, how the fuck did you know to come here?”

Eggsy gave you a look, like he was shocked you could even suggest that he wouldn’t have gotten there in time despite not having known what was going on just an hour earlier. “Sweetheart, I could feel you call out to me.”

“I can tell that’s not true, but I’ll choose to accept it as fact. You bring anyone with you?”

“Didn’t have the time. Rox should be sending them on their way now.”

“A bomb disposal unit, right?”

“What? Fuck, I didn’t know there’d be a _bomb_ on the plane. Did you?”

“No. No, I didn’t. Okay, okay, we’ve got this.” Eggsy was at the top of his class, and if you had stopped faking being an idiot, you might have been, too. “We’ve got brain cells to rub together. Oh!” You slammed your fist down on your palm. “We find some way to get the kids out, then fly it into midair and let it explode in midair.”

He looked at you in disbelief. “You fucking serious, mate? How many movies have you seen? Like all that debris isn’t gonna kill someone?”

“Sorry, the adrenaline is killing me right now.” You took a deep breath, your heart pounding. “Or how about we just throw the bomb out and just – taxi the plane away? I have no idea how much time is left on this but we should be able to get a minimum safe distance in time.”

“Okay, okay, good. That’s what I’m talking about.” He vaulted back over the bomb and past you to the cockpit, but you barely had enough time to struggle and pull the bomb towards you when he returned with a grim look on his face. “Well, that’s fucked. Kinsey’s sabotaged everything half to hell in there. This plane was never getting off the ground.”

“God, well, I would have given anything for her to not be such a good planner. Okay, okay, that’d be a shitty idea anyway. We’d just have all the backup walk right into an explosion.”

“Fuck this. I’ll just start cutting the wires and hope we don’t die.” He vaulted back over you and unceremoniously pushed the soiled corpse away to check out the bomb. You watched him eagerly, leaning forward and waiting for the moment when he told you that he had seen something like this before and that he had it all under control, but after a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Okay… Bit of an update: it’s not exactly as easy as it looks.”

You groaned and leaned back, pressing your knuckles against your temples. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Kinsey’s so goddamn efficient, she’d never let her plans be ruined by something like a disloyal red wire.”

You were clenching your hands into fists so hard that it hurt, so hard that you could feel your nails bite into your palms. No, no, this wasn’t how it was going to end, this wasn’t the way you were going to let it end. You could barely even look at the royal family, not wanting a reminder of the consequence of your failure. Of course, you did not want innocent children to die, especially not ones you had grown close to, but additionally – you did not want to give Kinsey the satisfaction, even in death, of having her plan succeed.

No – you couldn’t let Hendrick and the twins down again. And there was just one option you had left under your belt. It was all manner of terrifying and grisly and unpleasant, but it was an option, and possibly your only option under these circumstances.

You stood up and hoped that you cast an imposing and self-assured figure, but to your chagrin, your legs were shaking more than you’d like. “I’ve got another idea.”

Eggsy wasn’t quite looking at you, his brow furrowed as he tried to find some sort of weakness to the bomb. “I’m up for some brilliant suggestions right now, actually.”

“It’s a transportable bomb,” you told him, trying to keep your voice even. “That’s how Kinsey got it on here in the first place. Heavier now that she set it up properly, but not unmanageable.”

“Okay. Well, fuck; that’s a start.” He stood up, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “So you take one end, I take the other, we run it the fuck out as far as we can go and then run back.”

The thought of him going anywhere near it made the hair on your neck stand on end, and the next words fell from your mouth before you had enough time to call them back. “God dammit! I won’t risk you on a move like that. You’re going to get out of here. I’ll take it myself.”

Your words were met with only silence, and though you couldn’t bear to look up at him, you wondered if he was honestly considering your words. But just a moment felt like an hour in tight situations such as these, and so you did not leave him much room for rumination; you looked up and saw that he was staring at you with horror bordering on disgust. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Even you had to wince back; rarely did you hear that sort of a tone from him, directed at you, anyways. And sure enough, when you looked at him, he was practically spitting venom at you with those earnest eyes of his. “I’m never going to let that happen.”

“Well, you’re going to have to!” Admittedly, you sounded less than persuasive, more like a teenager who was insisting to a parent that they _were_ going to leave the house as late as they wanted, but wasn’t entirely confident of their own assertion. But you _did_ want to go, you _would._ Your brother had died for nothing, and because of that, you had never put yourself in harm's way. But now you had a good reason to do so, and he was fighting with you over an explosive. Grabbing one of the handles of the bomb, you tugged it toward you hastily, saying, “Just let me sacrifice myself all cool, Eggsy! Fuck!”

“Fuck that, _I’ll_ go instead.” He took the other handle and wrenched it toward him. “You’ll never be able to carry it all that way, anyway!”

“Are you kidding me?! Back in my day I’d haul boxes just as heavy around all the time! Let me do the heroic sacrifice!”

“If someone’s going to do a fucking heroic sacrifice between the two of us, it’s going to be _me!_ ”

Admittedly, in your haste to not let the bomb explode and kill _everyone,_ you were being more than a little overconfident about your possible impending doom, should you have actually carried out your plans. But Eggsy was determined to not let you have your way, and so the two of you entered a veritable tug-of-war contest over the fucking bomb that threatened to kill the two of you at any moment.

“Oh, come on!” you ended up crying, totally exasperated. “I don’t have time to fight with you on this! Just give it to me! You’re shitting on a potentially heroic moment for me!”

“Yeah, and I’ll _keep_ doing it until you give it to _me!_ ”

“No, it’s _mine!_ ”

“Like fuck I’ll give it to you!”

“Jesus Christ,” you spat, your brain not making proper connections at that moment. “Why _not?_ ”

“Because there’s no way in fucking _hell_ that I’d ever let someone that I love splatter themselves all over the goddamn _grass!_ ”

“You think I want to be _thinking_ about – ”

Belatedly, you understand all of the words that he said, and despite every moment being precious, etc. etc., you had to take a second to stare at him in slack-jawed, stupefied wonder. He also looked to be in a moment of stupefied wonder, but not precisely because of what he said to you; rather, he seemed to be looking at something beyond you, shock evident on his face, and you too had to turn just in time to see someone striding up to you.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Hayes grumbled, almost literally pushing you aside to look down at the bomb. “Same with all the childish bitching that I could hear from the outside of the goddamn plane.”

Yeah, you might have run down the bomb timer a bit, with all of that, but that could hardly be at the forefront of your mind. “Hayes!” Your first impulse was to shoot him, but you had to hastily remind yourself that it was not him who had strangled Mathilde and murdered Gitta. “What the fuck!” was your next eloquent outburst. “You’re supposed to be locked up!”

“I escaped during the transfer once I heard that Kinsey was on duty for bringing the family here. Like those limey fucks could seriously propose to keep me locked up.” He shot Eggsy a rather disgusted glance. “No offense, buddy.” He dropped his gaze, still disgusted, down to Kinsey’s corpse. “But I mean, I _told_ them about Kinsey. I knew it had to be her ever since I saw her in the crowd at the parade. Not that they’d believe it – fuckers wouldn’t even let me chase her. No offense, again.”

Eggsy, at first mute at the realization of his own confession, was English and could not be quieted when a sarcastic reply was needed. “Yeah, I think you used those up by now.” 

“But anyway, while you idiots were using up precious time, you probably could have dropped off the bomb and run off by now, but that’s out. But my motto has always been something about doing something right by doing it yourself.”

Before you had enough time to respond, Hayes squatted and picked up the bomb with such ease that you were shocked; you had never appreciated how much strength was in his otherwise wiry form. He swung around with it carelessly, and you had to wheel back out of the way, though not without blurting out, “Why are you doing this?”

Hayes glared at you, like you were irritating him just by asking. “Fuck’s it matter? I’m saving your skin, aren’t I?”

“Good enough for me,” Eggsy declared, flattening himself so that he could pass the two of you with ease.

You, however, were stuck to your spot, looking at Hayes with shocked wonder. You couldn’t believe this was happening, that Hayes had arrived like some sort of angel and had admittedly saved you from making too tough of a decision. But suddenly even that didn’t seem to be quite true, that you did not want an easy way out if it meant the loss of him. He, who you had wrongly maligned even despite his bullying of you, he who had tried to reveal Kinsey’s true nature when you hadn’t known, he who –

“Don’t just stand there like that,” he snapped, looking back to you. “If Kingsman ever makes it here, I don’t want them to see your stupid ass not knowing what to do, as usual.”

Well, sentiment was never his forte, and maybe he hadn’t been there for the part when you heroically tried to offer yourself up for sacrifice. “Danson…” He was lumbering past you, but you grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and waddled along behind him, not exactly wanting to stop him but also trying to go for the big dramatic moment. “Danson, are you doing this for redemption?”

“Redemption?” He barely considered the word. “For what? I didn’t do shit. If you didn’t let Kinsey blow her brains out, from what I can see, I would have made her do it.”

“No! I mean…” Well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask, right? “For how you treated me all those years.”

For just a moment, he actually paused to look back at you, and he looked so appalled that you immediately got your answer. Resuming, he spat, “No, of course not. I guess you proved yourself to be more capable than I expected. But that’s not it. Because I didn’t act in time, I…” He looked down, and though you were facing him at a poor angle, you realized that there were tears in his eyes. “Mathilde… No, she was the only one I ever cared about. Out of the whole lot of you. My partner. The way I felt when she almost died – how could I let you and your stupid limey go through all of that, if you actually _did_ drop off the face of the earth? So – I’m doing this for her. Because I wasn’t there, she got hurt, and that girl died. I’d only be letting her down twice if I let this go off around the royal family.”

“Oh, Danson…” For a moment you forgot about Eggsy waiting anxiously and impatiently outside of the plane, and you even forgot about the royal family seated drugged around you. All you could know was Danson Hayes, who was sacrificing himself to make up for what he had done; maybe not to you, but to Mathilde. And hadn’t that been such a recurring theme? Your brother had died because he had trusted Kinsey, and Kinsey had believed that all she had done was for the memory of your brother. And you too would have done anything for Eggsy.

“Danson…!” You were so twisted up by everything that had happened that you pulled yourself forward, trying to get closer to him. You realized only belatedly that you were meaning to kiss him, but figured that you might as well finish, to give him some good sensation in case this definitely proved to be a suicide mission. 

And he realized it, too, because he wrenched himself away from you with horror and disgust, making a face. “God, what are you doing? Just because you made yourself vomit doesn’t mean I have to, too.”

“Oh, sorry.” You landed back on your heels. “At least let me do _something_ for you, before you – you – ”

“Shutting up might be nice.”

You instinctively made a face, but you looked at his face again and you realized that he was trying to hide a pained expression. You may be getting out of this alive, but his own chances were slim and possibly nonexistent, and he was appreciating this fact. He told you, “Could you just get yourself the fuck to safety? Please?”

Not once in the years of you knowing him had he ever asked _please._ and you were so stunned that you could not do anything but nod. He made sure to face the front the rest of the way, as if afraid that you would see more tears. Finally he reached the stairs, and after he went down them, hugging the bomb tight to his chest, said stairs decided that they’d more or less had enough and split away from the craft entirely with a cacophony of creaking groans.

Eggsy was below you, obviously too impatient to consider getting himself to a minimum safe distance until he was certain that you were all right. You looked down at him for a moment, but your legs did not seem to be moving you forward; you looked up for some reason to the distance, but you could not see Kingsman on the horizon yet. Where the fuck were they, anyway? Surely they could break the laws of nature in order to come and see everything that had happened.

Below you, your partner was faltering, wrongly assuming that you had lost your nerve over the course of all the events and were too afraid to jump. “Harrison!” he called out desperately, moving forward as if to propose to catch you. “Jump!”

But you could not hear anything for just a second. It had finally caught up with you that you had perhaps seen Danson Hayes for the last time, and Marguerite Kinsey was dead, and you supposed that you had technically succeeded in your mission without feeling a drop of triumph. Was this what it truly meant to be an agent? Had your brother gone through all of this a hundred times?

Except – you had made it. It seemed strange to realize, but you were alive, and you were going to make it. You had done it, somehow. And you were still gripping the door to the plane.

“For fuck’s sake!” Eggsy cried. He was not certain what was taking you so long, and it would be a waste for you to still die after getting out of the suicide mission and especially after he had told you that he loved you. In the distance, Danson Hayes was little more than a tiny obstacle to the grass meeting the sky. “Please! Jump!”

You heard it – you heard the word _jump_ — but you did not recognize it as Eggsy’s voice. Instead it seemed to come from somewhere in the back of your mind, somewhere lost to infinity, a part of something you had thought was long forgotten by the world… You thought –

“Jump!” you heard your brother cry, at once behind and below you, and for a moment you could see him then. He was young and whole and familiar again, standing below you as you sat scared in a tree that you had shimmied up before finding yourself trapped like a housecat.

You jumped.

The bomb went off at the same time, and though it was too far away to injure or even seriously disrupt you, the blast itself seemed to launch you forward a little more than you intended. As such, Eggsy was not in the position he’d intended and he got more or less a faceful of your chest for a blessed moment before you rose again and moved forward with a hectic panic. You found yourself unable to look backwards at the lingering fire that had been left behind.

“Wait here,” you panted. “I’ve gotta go get Kingsman. The kids are still inside the plane. And Hayes… Kinsey…”

You could only make it a few feet before a wave of exhaustion hit you, and though you didn’t remember falling, you found yourself on the tarmac, regardless. It might have been burning your skin, but you didn’t quite notice. Though you were trying to push yourself up, your arms did not want to assist you, and your brain seemed to be trying to tell you that you had collapsed.

Eggsy, at least, had gotten the message and was lying on his back – more from the weight of you falling on him and not from exhaustion or shock – and he was cursing and swearing and rubbing his eyes fitfully. You considered joining him, but you figured that it was not like a Kingsman agent to be lying prone, and as you waited for him to stand, you managed to find enough energy to push yourself upwards and find your ground. You pitched forward, then backward, but somehow you managed to stay balanced in the end. Your suit was definitely ruined and you looked like a mess, but you were there. Your legs were shaking like mad but your feet felt like twin blocks of cement, fixing you rigidly to the ground like a monument, and that was how you were standing even five minutes later, when the rest of the agents finally arrived.


	25. Tomorrow Never Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ends happen, and you make ends meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a big thank y'all to everyone who put up with this trash fic. you make it worth it. even if i'm too shy to actually... reply to most of your comments........

**_Manner #17_** — If you bump into somebody, immediately say "Excuse me."

 

If you had thought the fallout and investigation following Gitta’s death and Mathilde’s strangulation had been bad, it was a cakewalk compared to what you had to endure after the mission.

After the agents finally came onto the scene and saw what had happened – Kinsey dead, the royal family fettered, the valiant Hayes in various locations around the airfield – no quick explanation would have sufficed. You were immediately separated from Eggsy and bundled into an unmarked car, and when no agent would respond to your questions about what the fuck was going on, you realized that no one else was aware of the grand happenings. You also realized how extraordinarily suspicious you had looked, standing in the middle of a clusterfuck with no outward injuries, and you knew just how it looked.

You, being at the forefront of it all, had found the events somewhat straightforward, but the investigation had nevertheless lasted for two weeks. Weeks that ended up feeling like months, years as you languished in a glorified holding cell as you awaited developments. Naturally, Washington was going to have a hard time believing that his apparently best and brightest agent had proven herself an antagonist in not only the present but the past as well. All you could do was sit there impatiently, giving answers to whatever interrogations they started as the visited you and wondering when they were finally going to let you see Eggsy again.

You finally got some respite in the form of Washington, who appeared in your doorway with an unusually grave look on his face, although he attempted a smile at you. “It’s been a while, Harrison.”

You sprang to your feet, rushing over to greet the first familiar face you’d seen in weeks of near-solitary confinement. “Washington! What the hell is going on?”

He looked away. The cocksure confidence and self-assuredness that had so often defined him earlier was now absent. You had to remember that he had lost two of his best agents in less than thirty minutes, and a third had an indefinite recovery period. And you, who he had so often written off as a load, someone who eternally had to prove herself – you were left.

“You’ll be out of here soon,” Washington promised, clamping his heavy hand on your shoulder in a familiar gesture. Despite the wind being taken out of his sails, it was still enough to nearly break you. “The investigation took longer than expected – that’s all. But they’ll be closing it within a couple of days. We’ll get you back on the next flight to America as soon as you want it.”

A curious twinge of dissatisfaction went through your stomach at that, though you weren’t sure why. You always knew that the mission would end, and that you’d have to return home; and you’d long since come to terms with that. You’d be returning to driving on the right side of the road, and handling money you recognized, and not having tea constantly shoved into your face, and being swarmed by familiar accents and news and politics. But you still did not feel quite acclimated with the reality that you’d soon be on a long flight across the ocean, not to return unless the cousins demanded your presence.

“You did good work, Harrison,” he went on, though he was unable to fully meet your eye, and you realized he was ashamed. “I’ll admit that, after Kinsey told me about you posing as Lincoln, I was about to call the whole thing off. But I was wrong. You’ve done some incredible work, being our olive branch to the cousins. What happened with Lincoln, and Roosevelt, and Adams wasn’t – ideal, to say the least. But you’ve made me proud.” He paused. “You’ve made _us_ proud, Harrison. And your brother would have been proud, too.”

There was a time when hearing that would have made you die from sheer joy, and there was also a time when the same words would have made you recoil in disgust. You searched your feelings right then and there, but you couldn’t salvage up much of anything but a tolerant smile. Here was a man who had let you waste away in solitary confinement because he had taken a traitor’s words as gospel; here was a man who had never quite believed in your potential, though you had admittedly never given him a reason to. But here was a man who had also tried to repair the relations that his predecessor had ignored, and you knew that, without him, you would have never come to England.

Washington was looking at you with an unreadable expression; you wondered if you would ever know what he truly thought of you. But at least some of it seemed to come out when he said, “Speaking of which, I’ve been doing some thinking. You understand that we’ve had a few… vacancies in the ranks now. I know they gave you that name out of mockery, mostly. But if you’d like, we could make you Lincoln, for real, now. I think you’ve proved your worth.” He paused, and if he was unsure if he should continue, he pressed on anyway, saying, “Or – Kennedy?”

The name caught you right in the heart, and you were breathless for a moment, just a moment. You closed your eyes, remembering your brother’s face, all he’d done and accomplished, everything that had ended with the name written into the reports telling you that he’d been killed.

“I appreciate it, sir. But I think I’ll stick with Harrison for now.” You paused, wondering if you shouldn’t be so definitive about everything. “Actually, I’ll think about it. About Lincoln, maybe. But I think I’ve been giving Harrison a pretty good reputation.”

“That you have,” he assured you, reaching out with that colossal hand once more to almost break your shoulder with a firm pat. “That you have.”

“Thank you, sir,” was all you could say, and then you were reminded of other pressing matters. “How is Mathilde doing?”

“She’s back in the States and doing just fine. Coming along beautifully, might be because of the good-looking nurse.” He frowned, a glimmer of grief crossing his eyes. “Though hearing about what happened with Adams nearly brought her back down again. She’ll be glad to have you back, Harrison.”

Well, at least there was something to look forward to when you went back to America. That you hadn’t been able to see her at all since the bomb fiasco was bad enough, and that reminded you that she wasn’t the only one you’d missed. “And what of the royal family?”

“They’ve returned home. Though the crown prince did insist on leaving you a present.”

You were shocked at yourself over how saddened you were to not have had a proper chance to say good-bye to your young clients, as big of a pain in the ass as they were. Washington reached out to you and dropped something into your palm, and you stared agape at the shockingly sentimental gift as your boss went on.

“We kept them for a week to make sure that the drugs had no ill effects, and he made you this while he was waiting,” he explained when you couldn’t take your eyes off of it. “That’s what I mean. Good work, Harrison. I’m not sure Kinsey would have ever been privileged enough to get a friendship bracelet.”

You didn’t think that Hendrick would have ever had it in him to make a friendship bracelet, and perhaps you would be the only person in history to get one. Marveling at how shockingly well-crafted it was, you tugged it onto your wrist, underneath the sleeve of your bespoke suit. “Thanks for bringing it to me, sir.”

“It’s nothing. Especially considering I didn’t come here just to give you an update.”

Well, that probably explained why he left you there to languish for two weeks. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes. But the cousins figured that you were wasted talent, left lying here in your cell.” He grinned, tugging at his cuffs. “We’re putting you on one last mission before you come home, Harrison.”

Interest sparked in your breast at the sound of that, if only because missions in England meant that you’d have your English partner with you. It seemed that your mission to promote good relations with the cousins had proven even more successful than possibly imagined, because even the short absence away from him already felt like months rather than weeks.

“A mission?” you repeated, trying to sound more thoughtful than excited or surprised, to make yourself look less of an idiot. “With who?”

“Who?” He seemed bemused. “With yourself, Harrison. You can do missions by yourself, of course. No more tagging along with Kinsey.”

“No, of course, but I just…” You trailed off, stumped. “I just thought…”

Washington finally seemed to pick up on your meaning, and he frowned, his expression dark. “Harrison, I’m afraid you’re not going to see your old partner again. You understand how busy the branches are going to be from now on. He was released earlier than you were, being in his own territory and all. Arthur informed me this morning that Galahad is in Dublin on a mission of his own. Hence why we thought it might be more productive if you were released to do some work of your own. It’d be a last send-off, before we fly you back.”

“I see.” You were in England, and thus it made sense to retain at least some of the British stoicism that you had been so acclimated to over your mission, though your American overexpression of emotion was threatening to burst through the carefully laid asphalt.

It seemed you really would not be seeing Eggsy again, and the higher-ups were doing whatever they could do remind the two of you what it was like to work apart again. Maybe it had seemed unhealthy, to be practically joined at the hip all the time. But it seemed torture to be denied even a farewell with him, especially as your weeks alone had given you more than enough time to reflect on the fact that he’d told you that he loved you, and you had been rather too distracted to have understood him properly.

You had no choice to argue, though. After being praised so highly and being reminded of what a stunning agent you’d turned out to be, you could do little but mutely sit there as you were briefed on your mission by Merlin, who was spearheading the campaign.

Apparently there was an international criminal in town by the name of Melnyk, and it would be your job to take him out after posing as someone else. In the past, you had never really got the opportunity to go undercover at all outside of you pretending to be Kinsey for weeks on end, so you jumped at the chance to do so now. You recalled a vague dream that you had, so long ago: your brother telling you, _You could be a married woman by the end of this…_ and you scooted forward eagerly in your seat.

“Can I do it?” you asked, unable to keep the excitement from your voice as you studied your target’s typical Slav face. “Can I get fake married to someone?!”

True, Eggsy was your first candidate for such a thing, even though Merlin had already patiently reiterated that your old partner would not be back until the next morning, when you’d already be flying home. But still, you figured that you’d been through enough to the point where the universe would more or less shift to be in your favor for just one shining moment.

Merlin, however, was able to recalibrate said flaw, and looked at you with some disapproval. “I’m afraid not,” he informed you. “The location where you’ll be taking down Melnyk is in – a place of ill repute.”

You had watched _Shakespeare in Love_ once on a long flight, and you vaguely understood enough so that your hand went to your mouth. “You’re sending me to a _brothel?_ ”

“Oh, nothing as dramatic as that, I assure you. No – Melnyk has been known to frequent strip gentlemen’s clubs. And we have confirmation of where he will be at this particular evening.”

“I see.” You recalled the other half of your brother’s prophecy: _Or maybe a stripper. I’m not a psychic._ “I’m not really sure… Okay, I’m not sure I have the training to be a really _entertaining_ stripper, but I’ll try…”

“No need to concern yourself over that, Harrison,” Merlin assured you, though his tone suggested you didn’t need to thank him just yet. “There are some back rooms that Melnyk will take full advantage of. Private, no fear of interruption, as he’ll have his guards wait outside. He _will_ be on edge, though; you’ll just need to get his guard down long enough to take him out, quietly.”

All this seemed to be way more complicated than the way Washington would have had it done, i.e. sniping the dude from a rooftop and then going out for a pizza, but after two weeks in confinement, you would have done anything just to get some exercise. But still, the position you’d be forced to adopt was a little too unsavory, even for your tastes.

“You don’t have anyone else who can act as a… Whatever this is?” You frowned at your paperwork. “I mean, _getting his guard down…_ I’m not gonna have to…?”

“No,” Merlin cut in before you had fully raised your hand to begin an obscene pantomime. “No – it’s why we chose you for this task, Harrison. You see, he’s got a penchant for killing the women hired to keep him entertained. Cutting them, strangling them, the like.”

You gave him a droll look. “This evening’s just getting better and better.”

“Not recently, though. The last three women have all been poisoned. Seems he has an interest for doing it the slow way. Which is where you’ll come in.”

You folded your arms rather rudely. “Some agency we are. We couldn’t kill him three, five, ten dead women ago? Didn’t have enough motivation beyond reasonable doubt…?” But when Merlin only gave you the usual stoic look, you gave up trying to abuse him and sighed. “Oh, well. Nothing better to do, huh? Okay, tell me where to get him…”

And so there you were, sitting ramrod straight on a leather seat that might once have been luxury but was now covered with strange sticky spots. You knew that you would have to lounge around with a sexy air once Melnyk arrived, but you couldn’t bear to put more of your skin on the furniture than you had to. You knew that you looked like the most out-of-place working girl in the whole club, sitting there awkwardly in the soundproof back room, but you figured it couldn’t be help. You were the one with the cocktail dress and the garter belt and the stiletto heels, all topped off with a childish friendship bracelet that sat wrapped around your wrist. In your boredom, you wondered if you would be about to garrote Melnyk with it, if worst came to worst.

A girl was leading Melnyk to you, assuring him that the club had arranged for only the sexiest worker in the establishment to wait on him. The door opened and in the Slav walked. You, not expecting him so soon, hastily flopped out on the sofa in a position of vague seduction.

You realized that, for all the time you were sitting there, you hadn’t even been thinking about what to say to him. Instead, you’d been ruminating on finishing Melnyk off as soon as he walked in so that you could make it to Dublin and back before the morning. If the room was soundproof, certainly his guards wouldn’t notice if you offed him after thirty seconds? Well, they’d notice you hastily making your leave too early, but surely there could be some back door you could use…

Trying to act quickly, you flopped yourself a little more sideways on the couch like someone had pushed you, and tried to give him a seductive look. “Good evening.” Except your attempt at being languid made you sound depressed, and thus you sounded more like a bored cashier working the midnight shift at a grocery store. 

Melnyk gave a perturbed look to the girl who had led him there. Evidently, he did not have a glasses fetish. “The best you had to offer, huh?”

She gave him a helpless look as you hastily lowered a shoulder strap on your dress to make yourself look more alluring. When he turned back to you, at least, it seemed to convince him enough to stay, and he ordered his guards to stand watch before sitting down with you.

He engaged you in some bland small talk, which, after the gun he kept trained on you the entire time with a jumpy hand, was only the second-worst part of the evening. You had to pretend to be anxious at the sight of the weapon, when all you could think about was how often you’d had one pointed at you since you’d come to England. And if Melnyk started making vague references to his penis size again, you were going to start hoping he actually pulled the trigger.

Eventually, though, he did relax, though he didn’t put the gun down. He was watching how nervous you were apparently getting, and if anything was getting hard because of your vulnerability, it wasn’t his heart. You were relieved when he requested some glasses, and you played along when he tried to distract you in order to slip something into your drink. Hopefully, you mused as you picked up the glass, this was supposed to kill you and not make you tell the truth, or something, because you’d be forced to admit what a terrible evening you were having.

Melnyk moved forward in his seat as you took a healthy drink from your glass. You were careful to taste it, to feel the liquid slide down your throat. It tasted a little tangy, a little tropical, and you recognized what it was supposed to be doing to you. How thoughtful of Merlin and Washington, to let you use your skills one last time in England! That was what you were thinking, as outwardly you gagged and choked and spasmed on the disgusting, sticky leather sofa.

You thought yourself quite convincing, to be honest, and you lay there with pride as you clutched your throat. Rarely did you get to show off your acting in such an admirable way. You were on edge only until you heard a weight hit the table, and you knew that Melnyk had set his gun down. You had gotten his guard down, at least, and you could hear him move on light feet to where you were lying.

He was inspecting you, though to your short-lived relief, he wasn’t touching you to do so. You could hear his ragged, excited breathing as he got up close to your face, and it took all of your composure to not wince when you felt his hot breath hit your cheek. Still, it was good news. He just needed to get closer – just a little closer –

And then you heard a familiar jingling sound, and you realized with disgust that he was trying to get his pants down. Was that what he did with them, after he killed those women? Such people that lived in the world with you!

“Hey!” you cried, your eyes flying open and your body uncoiling like a snake ready to strike. He froze in horror, just a second long enough for you to wrap your legs around his neck and pull him down. “That’s fucked up, man. You should be fucking _ashamed_.”

Melnyk had no response to that, if only because your thighs were squeezing all the air out of him. You wondered if you should have perhaps chosen a better position, because surely this was a reward to him and not a punishment, but it was doing its job. The guards outside were unconcerned, and Melnyk himself was unable to make a sound.

You blathered on about how disgusting you found his habits even after you had strangled him to death, though you had considered keeping him alive just long enough to finish. But the gaming mood had drained from you, as you were still depressed about being unable to see Eggsy, and thus you couldn’t even bring yourself to harass a criminal before you took him out.

After kicking Melnyk away, you radioed Merlin and wondered if you could still use the alcohol that Melnyk had left unpoisoned. “Ready for some cleanup, Arthur. Merlin. Oh, close enough.”

“Excellent work, Harrison. The guards are still outside. Just stay put and we’ll extract you in a minute.”

“Like I couldn’t take them on,” you complained. “I know what you said about no weapons to make sure Melnyk felt secure, but you know me. I’ve got at least three knives on me, right now. Can you guess where they are?”

“Lewd, Harrison.”

“Ah, I’m just having some fun…” You sighed, knowing that it was the sort of thing that Eggsy got off on. You wondered if you wouldn’t be spending half your time back in America talking about him, making your coworkers wonder where you had gotten your sudden affinity for eggs.

After a long while you spent asking Melnyk’s corpse rhetorical questions, you finally heard the good news. “The guards have been removed, Harrison. You can come out now. Someone will be right in to take care of Melnyk.”

“Well, thank God. I was ready to do a _Weekend at Bernie’s_ just to get away from this techno. What kind of mood are they trying to set here?”

You could have sworn that the music got even louder at that point, as if trying to spite you. As you reached out for the door handle, you turned back for a moment to glare at the speaker system, and at that moment the door swung open unexpectedly and someone ran right into you.

“Excuse me,” was your automatic response. Knowing that it couldn’t be the cleanup squad, you tried to move to block the Slavic corpse on the floor and cawed, “This room’s occupied, thank you.”

“You’re fucking right, it is.”

You were picked up and thrown back onto the filthy couch, but this time you could hardly care. Even without the dark, pulsing lights, you would have known the body underneath your hands anywhere. “Eggsy!”

At first you were sure that you were so desperate to see him that your eyes were lying to you, that you were hallucinating, but it _was_ him, straightening up over you with a self-congratulatory grin on his face. “Hope you weren’t expecting anyone else to throw you on the couch.”

“But, you…” You even forgot that the two of you had to step over a corpse to get where you were. “You’re supposed to be in Dublin!”

“I _was._ Nearly killed myself, finishing the mission so fast. Worth it, though.” He seemed uncertain as to whether he should touch you or talk to you, so he did both. “I _missed_ you.”

“I missed you too,” you blathered without much elegance between uncoordinated kisses. “I thought about you the whole time they kept me confined. I thought I wouldn’t get to see you again before I left…” Suddenly you recalled what both of your bosses had told you. “They told me I wouldn’t get to see you!”

“My apologies for misleading you, Harrison,” Merlin told you, pretending as though he weren’t witnessing the goopy scene. “Washington thought that you deserved a nice surprise.”

Of _course_ he’d pull that shit on you at the last minute. You were suddenly overjoyed about everything, in love with the miserable world and all its wonderful creatures, and possessing just enough prowess to pull at Eggsy’s clothing.

“I don’t want to leave,” you were saying as hurriedly as you could, not sure how much time you’d get to monologue before you were undressed enough to start fucking. “I can’t go back tomorrow. Not so soon. I like being _here._ With you.”

Eggsy almost literally tortured you, stopping his hands on top of you. “What?” 

“I don’t want to leave you!” you cried, wriggling impatiently underneath him. “I heard what you said back there, Eggsy. And I love you too. And it’s really fucking stupid that we’re both secret agents in a dangerous field and I shouldn’t get into something like that, but it’s true. I love you, and I can’t leave you.”

Eggsy gave a scoffing laugh, electricity sparking in his eyes. You almost thought he was making fun of you until he shook his head and said, “Unbelievable.”

“What? I thought that was pretty good.”

“No – I mean, said almost the exact same fucking thing about you to Merlin, not even two hours ago.”

“Really?” You laughed breathlessly, pulling at him again, trying to resume the imminent reunion sex. “Well – great minds think alike.”

“I mean it. They’re not getting you back,” he insisted, trying to work down your garter belt. “At least, they can try. Wherever you go, I go. Partners.”

“We’ll have a sit-down. I’m sure Washington can keep renting me out for a little while, yet. They need the entrepreneurial American spirit in England, still. Right, Merlin?”

Your boss’s voice was unbelievably strained. “Of course, Harrison. We’ll work something out, but – ”

“Oh, Washington would just get sick of me after a week, anyway, if I just hung around HQ over there.” You paused, then added quickly, “But we have to go to see Mathilde.”

“Of course.” Eggsy finally got the top of your dress down, biting down on what he found underneath. “A nice, long visit with Mathilde.”

“And I need a vacation,” you went on. “Badly. I mean, I don’t think I’ve had one in _years._ ”

“A vacation,” he agreed against the curve of your waist. “All expenses paid.”

“Where do you want to go? Oh, I hardly ever got to really travel…” A hundred locations could have crossed your mind, but it was hard to focus when Eggsy was wedging himself between your legs, making up for all the time he’d missed away from you. Both of your glasses had fallen off in the attempt to get into a good position, and Merlin must have been sitting through a sort of multi-cam porn experience. “How about Iceland?”

“ _Iceland?_ ” Shocked, he paused his ministrations. “Fuck, you’d better aim higher than that.”

“What? It’s beautiful, and if we don’t go soon, it might get, like, torn apart by all those volcanoes.”

“Well, fuck. How about Amsterdam?”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? So kinky.”

“There’s always France.” He was actually getting thoughtful about it. “How about somewhere in France? Everyone likes France.”

“Okay, but I hear Paris is kind of disappointing. And dirty.” An epiphany came like a lightning bolt. “How about Marseille? Not too busy, really beautiful, so quaint…”

“Marseille,” he agreed, plunging back into reuniting with you, and you acquiesced, not thinking of France or America or even London, really, just – no, you could only think about the here and the now, skin against skin, your teeth against him, the susurrus of expensive fabric so soft yet seemingly louder than the blaring techno.

You reasoned that, with all you’d been through, you deserved at least ten minutes to relax, at least ten minutes to forget about everything you’d soon have to focus your energy on. Because you’d been in solitary confinement before, back in America when Kinsey had her control over you, and it had nearly driven you insane after just a few days; but you had faced the same for two weeks in London, and you had managed. Because you had someone with you, and you knew that you were no longer alone, because of someone who was beside you and on top of you and below you and various points in between as you worked the private room with the sorts of impossible positions only possible in professional porn and erotic fiction.

But all that sort of philosophy could be saved for another time. You had a friendship bracelet; and you had Mathilde waiting for you in America; and you had Marseille; and you had Eggsy, whining with ambiguous relish as you pulled his hair; and over all, you had Merlin, who was forced to walk away from the monitors so that his best agents could copulate.

And not, he recalled, for the first time.


End file.
